


Won't Look Down

by thisonegoes



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abandonment, Choking, Dealer Zayn, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Emotional Baggage, M/M, Overdosing, Power Play, Rough Sex, Sad Zayn dealing with his problems in a backwards way, Stripper Harry, brief mention of suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-03 19:48:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 53,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1755571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisonegoes/pseuds/thisonegoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn leans against the bar and watches, his whiskey almost gone, the heat pooling in his stomach, as the dancer on stage grabs at his hair and rolls his hips. Zayn wants to touch him, he realizes. He's bored watching. His fingers twitch.</p><p>(AU where Harry is a stripper, Zayn is a dealer, and they both have a lot to work through before they can work together.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

Misery loves company, or so the saying goes.  
  
Miserable people always find other miserable people.  
  
The people with the fucked up lives, the ones who live in bottles, under tables, behind dumpsters in alleys downtown, they all gravitate towards one another because the nice people, the ones in houses and pushing strollers, the ones with dental plans and recipe books, they won't have them. At least, not in the long run.  
  
Never trust someone who says they like a "bad boy," because those are the people going through phases, getting tattoos to piss off their parents, putting off college so they can "find themselves." They're the ones who get drunk a few nights a week so they can feel something in their gut as they vomit up whiskey, the ones who want the "misunderstood boy" they meet at a bar. What they don't understand is that boy is not misunderstood. He is who he is. He is the way he is for a reason.  
  
Misery loves company because miserable people deserve each other. And happy people, or at least the ones who grow out of phases and go to college eventually, the ones who grow up and cover their tattoos with sweater sleeves and colorful polos, those people deserve each other, too.  
  
 _You're so miserable, you should be fucking careful who you fall for, because whoever it is? Probably even more fucked up than you._  
  
Jamie told Zayn that once, and he should get it tattooed somewhere so he doesn't forget. Because his tattoos aren't a phase. And for that matter, neither are Harry's.  
  
They don't even see each other that first night, the first night they're in the same place at the same time.  
  
There's not a glance, a passing smile, a brush of an arm. Zayn stays at the back of the club, tucked in a booth with his sunglasses over his face, and Harry stays stationed in the cage near the front bar.  
  
Zayn's fucked out of his mind, is the thing. He shouldn't be because he technically only came to the club to deal, to sell to two new guys at their favorite place, guys who seem fun and excited to be in Los Angeles, with their eyes wide. They wanted an eight ball and some Vicodin, which was easy enough. According to the rules he set for himself, Zayn was supposed to get a drink, sit with them for a few minutes, make the exchange, and leave. He shouldn't have stayed, shouldn't have had a line, shouldn't have laughed with strangers.  
  
But Zayn does pretty much every single thing he shouldn't do. His life is a prime example of that. So he keeps his eyes covered so the lights don't overwhelm his senses, as his leg jumps beneath him, and Jamie's texts come through his phone in his pocket, ignored.  
  
He pulls at his collar, the grey tshirt sticking to his back, the undone plaid shirt hanging off his shoulders feeling like it's made of lead. It's too heavy, it's constricting him. He can feel the hot air of the club around him along his bare knees, sticking out of his jeans. His mind races and he wonders why he's still there, why he didn't just do his deal like he was supposed to, and leave. He was supposed to spend his night alone. Alone alone alone. It's too loud.  
  
Zayn works best alone, he gets off on it. If he can go an entire day without having to speak to a single human being, he considers it a win. He works in the garage, with Dax, pulling parts from cars, things they can sell, things they find in junkyards to put them back together, because it's easy and mindless. He can put headphones on and work all day, can text with his regulars, sure. But there's no speaking involved. He likes to be alone alone alone.  
  
He thinks that, as he comes down slightly from the line, that he wants to be alone, until the other part of his brain kicks in and he reaches for the baggie in his pocket and he takes another bump. Just because. The guys smile at him, happy he's still there and having a good time. But it's too loud and he's there, and he needs something else. It's too loud.  
  
Zayn doesn't think it, not really, because his breathing slows and his eyes close as the club swirls around him, but he's miserable.  
  
Harry's also fucked out of his mind, is the thing. Most nights he can't dance unless his skin is crawling, unless there's an itch underneath his epidermis that makes his nerve endings feel alert. He can't drink because he can't be full when he dances, so tonight, like almost every night since he was hired at the club, he snorted the Oxy he scrounged up in the dressing room, from whoever was lucky enough to have the hook up or regular customer there that night, slipping pills from tongue to tongue.  
  
Harry moves in the cage, hands gripping the metal as the music pounds against his eardrums. He hates this particular cage, the one closest to the front bar, because it's right near a speaker and the drunk guys below him can't keep their hands to themselves, the ones who won't tip yet. Harry can usually close his eyes and drift, let himself move, his body roll in the delicious curve he's perfected. The tiny red briefs he wears are tight tonight, almost too tight, but he needs the money. He needs the men below him to get their drinks so they'll finally shove their fingers through the bars near his feet, pushing him crumpled bills taken from ATMs mere minutes before they stepped into the place.  
  
Because if the money doesn't get better here, he knows: he'll have to move on. And it won't be to a dance club like this, or a bar with shirtless bartenders. He'll have to move on for real, to a place where he won't have to worry about too-tight red briefs, because he won't be wearing any.  
  
Harry tells himself to concentrate, to put his face on, the face that makes him look like a million things at once: young but mature, sexy but innocent, high as fuck but steady as a drum. He zeros in on the men below him, the ones staring up at him like he's art, the young guy in the cage with the hairless chest and shaggy curly hair. He's the Baby Face of the go-go dancers in the club, the one they stick in the front to lure people, the one they rely on to rope men in.  
  
It works because he always does, always has at least one man pulling at his hands at the end of his shift, asking him what he wants, if he needs someone to take care of him. He only indulges long enough for a pill or two, something from the edge of a credit card or under a pinky nail, because Harry likes to earn his money on his own. But tonight Harry doesn't want to be seen, because the music is too loud and it's not loud enough to drown his thoughts out. It's too loud, but he needs it louder. He dances, knuckles white as he holds the cage bars and shakes his ass back and forth.  
  
Harry doesn't think it, not really, because he closes his eyes again to pretend like the eyes below him can't see him anymore, but he's miserable, too.  
  
Misery loves company.  
  
They don't see each other because they're both too miserable to open their eyes.

  
  
***

  
Zayn slips the cigarette between his lips as he makes his way out of the garage. He slaps at his pockets, making sure he has his wallet and phone, before pulling out the lighter Jamie got him years ago, the one that looks like a tube of lipstick. It's stupid, but Jamie insisted it was ironic, so.  
  
Downtown Los Angeles at night is Zayn's favorite because it's the perfect merge of people. The homeless ones in dirty socks, pushing shopping carts full of shit, they walk right past the people coming down from their condos, heading out to fancy dinners and galas. They coexist together and resolutely ignore one another, like an unspoken pact, a rule they all follow because they don't know any different. He smiles to himself when someone goes against the grain, a man in a suit and a briefcase in his hand, hands Bernie a five. She smiles at Zayn as he passes, gives him a wink.  
  
Even if he doesn't like to talk to people often, it's nice to have familiar faces smile at him, especially when it means they get dinner that night.  
  
Zayn walks towards the club, the one he fucked himself over in a few weeks ago, ready to make another deal with the same guys, when he makes himself the promise again, the one he's used his entire life: _don't stay, don't play, don't let them see you sweat._ He can't do that again, make the same mistake with the same people. Even if the guys seem harmless, he knows better. He can't be a fucked up dealer with money and drugs in his pockets, especially in a packed club. His friend Anthony let himself go once, let himself participate in the party, and woke up hours later with everything gone, his stash, his money, even the safety change he kept in his boot. They even gave him a black eye for good measure.  
  
So when Zayn pushes against the door and nods to security, the guy he's slipped money to before, he repeats it: _don't stay, don't play, don't let them see you sweat._  
  
Carlos and David sit in the same booth as last time, as random shirtless cocktail servers twirl around them. As Zayn gets closer, he realizes he won't need to keep his promise with them, because they're already paying. David slowly counts the bills out, the hundreds he holds like ones, before slipping them into the pocket of his server, a guy in tight jeans and too white teeth.  
  
"S'going on, boys?" Zayn nods, getting into the booth next to Carlos.  
  
"Z," he nods, before looking over to David.  
  
This is going to be a short exchange, then. No party. No drinks. No insisting Zayn stay. They need their shit and they need to go, apparently. Easy enough.  
  
Zayn doesn't waste time after he sees their eyes, their needy eyes ready to go to another party, maybe in the hills, maybe in a crack den, who knows. He finds David's hand under the table and slips the eighth to him, his other hand finding Carlos, the wad of cash now in his hand. Zayn looks at them, uses his eyes to see if that's all, when Carlos shakes his head. So Zayn reaches into his jacket and pulls out the two other small bags he has, the Oxy and Percocet, and hands them over under the table as well.  
  
He doesn't count the money until they're gone and he's in the booth alone, something he would never do with anyone else, but he knows Carlos and David are good guys. He's not sure what they do exactly, if they're fucking each other or just fuck other people in the same rooms, but they seem easy enough. They need what they need, and Zayn's their guy now. Zayn goes with his gut and figures he can trust them.  
  
It's as he's wondering what he should do, if he should head home, or get on a bus to nowhere, maybe get something to eat, when he sees him.  
  
His body is all wrong. There's something entirely too _off_ about the guy dancing, the one on the small stage near the back bar. He's tall, but not exactly lanky, littered with shitty tattoos. He's sturdy, muscular, but he looks like he could break in half. He's sexy, but young. His long hair bounces around his face, a face too sweet to be dancing for money on a stage, in combat boots and an American flag thong. He's childish, but his face looks hardened by the world.  
  
Zayn wonders if that's what his own face conveys as well.  
  
He doesn't even know why but he makes his way back towards the stage near the bar, already has a hand up for the bartender. He doesn't look up again until he has the whiskey in his hand, ice melting too quickly, condensation dripping down his wrist. He looks up and the guy looks down, looks right at him, and smiles as that stupid Pretty Ricky song begins to play.  
  
His smile is all wrong, too. It's cute, cheeky, but fucking deadly. Zayn envisions a snake, slithering through the grass, ready to strike if Zayn so much as looks away. So he doesn't.  
  
The song has a slow, but steady beat to it. The guy runs his hands up his thighs, over his dick, his stomach, his chest, before reaching his neck. He finally looks away from Zayn, when he turns around, back to the crowd now, little ass moving side to side, slowly. His hands run down his sides now, to his ass, gripping, spreading himself a little, bending over. A few guys around Zayn cheer for him, send love up to him on stage, while Zayn silently sips his drink.  
  
He has a weird rhythm, a rhythm that barely exists. He gets the beat easily, moves with it, but he looks like he should be falling over, like he has strings holding him up, dictating his movements. Zayn wonders what it would be like if the guy was on top of him, swerving his hips, if _that_ rhythm has fucked up the dancing he should have perfected, if he doesn't know how to move unless he's with someone under him. He has thick thighs, a torso that goes for days, and as he turns back around to look back down at the crowd, he dips. His ass almost touches the stage as more men yell for him.  
  
Someone reaches up with a single in their hand, as the guy smiles down at him and tugs at the fabric against his hip, snapping it against himself, trapping the bill there. He winks as a thank you.  
  
Zayn leans against the bar and watches, his whiskey almost gone, the heat pooling in his stomach, as the guy stands back up, grabs at his hair and rolls his hips. _Grind on me, relax your mind, take your time on me._ Zayn vaguely wonders if the guy would like to grind on him, which is saying something, since Zayn detests dancing entirely. Maybe this odd body would feel nice against him on a dance floor. Maybe he could try. He wants to touch him, he realizes. He's bored watching. His fingers twitch.  
  
But then Zayn looks closer, watches his face instead of his hips, as the men around him crowd closer to the stage, eating it up. The guy has faint circles under his eyes, from lack of sleep probably, his eyes slightly hooded. He has sweat along his forehead. His pupils are blown wide.  
  
And that's Zayn's in. He smiles to himself.  
  
As the song winds down, as the crowd gets more excited, waiting to see if the guy is done, or if he's about to gear up for another song, Zayn turns away. He slips the pill into his mouth as slyly as he can without anyone noticing, before turning back.  
  
The song ends with a string beat, instrumental, a few bars. The guy bounces to it, his head back slightly, a smirk on his face because he fucking knows how good he looks. His eyes find Zayn and his smirk becomes wider, showing off his dimples. Zayn doesn't smile back, he just stares at him, before ever so slowly sticking his tongue out. The guy sees. His eyes never leave Zayn's, as he stills slightly, seeing the pill on the tip of Zayn's tongue, the gift he's offering, if he wants it.  
  
The next song starts, something faster. Zayn sees it plain as day, the telltale signs of someone who craves it, needs it. The guy's not smiling anymore. He nods at Zayn, intense, licking his lips, before turning around to shake his ass for the crowd again.  
  
Zayn smiles to himself as he walks towards the booths again, hoping his table is still open.  
  
He just has to wait. The guy will find him.

  
  
***

  
Jamie would hate to see him now, Zayn thinks, as he has another drink in the empty booth once inhabited by Carlos and David. He'd look at Zayn, at his dirty fingernails, his scuffed boots, the rips in his jeans, and frown. Because Jamie took their shared situation and decided early on to change his fate.  
  
Zayn knows his name is Zayn Malik, but he doesn't know why. He doesn't know if it's a family name, if he's named after his father or maybe a family friend, because he doesn't know where he came from. He was an orphan, a boy in a blanket on a set of stairs, a swirl of black hair given to him from nameless, faceless people, just a kid with a name and a birth date written on a piece of paper stuffed in his onesie. Zayn doesn't even have any memories from before he was about eleven, when he distinctly remembers getting dropped off at June's, and the next day getting shoved to the ground outside his school and Jamie pulling him up by the collar, his nostrils flared in anger.  
  
Zayn's early childhood wasn't traumatic by any means. He spent those years in foster homes and a group home for a while, bouncing from place to place, with a folder in his hand to tell people who he was when he was dropped off by a social worker, explaining that he was an orphan from birth. But for some reason, he can't see anything before age eleven. That's where his life started, he supposes, when he got placed at June's house, the small house in east LA where he met Jamie. Jamie's mom was addicted to heroin and the state took him away from her, rightfully so, and he was placed at June's only a day before Zayn arrived.  
  
They clung to each other, two boys drifting together, settling into a new life at the same time. June had foster kids in and out of her house for years, but they were the only two to stick, the only kids she had until they turned eighteen. She called them "her boys," and even though Zayn doesn't consider himself to have a family, he sort of sees why they consider him apart of theirs, Jamie and June, his J's.  
  
Zayn thinks of Jamie as he waits in the booth, the pill long dissolved on his tongue, his vision slightly blurred and laser focused all at once. They grew up side by side, Zayn the brown kid with no middle name, Jamie the black kid with a mom's-ex-boyfriend-scar on his right arm. Jamie got a scholarship to college; Zayn learned how to weigh and sell like a pro, from the guys in the garage. Jamie couldn't stand the smell of smoke; Zayn couldn't live in a house without it. Zayn thinks that Jamie would frown now, that frown he wears so well, seeing Zayn high in a club, waiting for a dancer to come sit on his lap.  
  
If he thought about it harder, if he let himself go there, he'd wonder what else Jamie would say if he could see him now. He'd hear Jamie's voice, the slight tilt of it as he warned him to be careful, as he pleaded for him to remember June and be safe.  
  
But as he shakes his head to rid himself of it all, of the thoughts running a mile in his head, he shakes it off. Because Zayn doesn't like to think about anything when he's high.  
  
So he doesn't.

  
  
***

  
Zayn's head feels heavy as he lifts it off the back of the booth, his body reacting to the sudden weight in his lap, the body holding him down.  
  
"Hi," the dancer purrs, as Zayn's eyes focus on his face.  
  
Zayn just nods, a shrug, a silent hello, as the guy's hands find their way up his neck and the back of the booth.  
  
Zayn did exactly what he said he wasn't going to do, he stayed and played, he's playing now, as the guy stares at him with a gleam in his eye. He wants Zayn to want him back, to prove that he wants him in his lap. Zayn's brain catches up, so he brings his hands to the guy's bare thighs on either side of his own. His skin is soft.  
  
"S'your name?" Zayn huffs out, finally, his voice working again, his tongue heavy.  
  
"I'm Prince, babe. What's your name?"  
  
"'Little Red Corvette' Prince, or 'Purple Rain' Prince?" he questions, the sly smile he loves to wear sliding up his face. "M'Zayn."  
  
"Neither," the guy smiles back, biting his lip. "Prince like royalty. Get it?"  
  
Zayn just nods.  
  
The music changes around them, the lights dim slightly, as the night rolls on. New dancers are on the small stages throughout the club, a few in cages near the DJ, and it's getting hotter. The temperature, the energy, the guys walking through the front door, all hotter, all more intense. Zayn looks up at the guy, the guy hiding his name, and he wants to touch him more. It's like he can't help it now. He slides his hands up and down his thighs, gripping him, as the guy watches him work.  
  
His hands go higher, his thumbs digging into his inner thighs, almost all the way up now. He could slip his fingers under the tight black briefs he's now wearing. Zayn wonders where the thong went, if he gets to keep it, or if it's a uniform.  
  
He wants to touch.  
  
He looks up into his eyes, right as the guy leans down further, shaking his head slightly.  
  
"No touching," he purrs into his ear, rolling his hips once, because he's a tease.  
  
Zayn lets out a breath.  
  
"You wanna party?" Zayn whispers into the guy's ear.  
  
The guy grinds down on him again, teasing, and Zayn almost grabs at the back of his head, grabs onto his hair to tell him to stop, but he doesn't. He wants to keep touching, even if it's at his cock's expense at the moment.  
  
"What do you got for me?" the guy whispers to Zayn now, fingers in Zayn's hair.  
  
Zayn nudges his head with own so the guy sits back. He smiles at Zayn, excited now, his entire body shaking slightly in anticipation. Zayn reaches into his pocket and finds the pills, puts one on his tongue, the guy's eyes following his every move. He lets the guy see, lets him watch, as his tongue slips out of his mouth, offering the pill with set eyes. As the guy leans in, as his fingers tighten on Zayn's neck, Zayn puts a hand on his chest.  
  
"Tell me your name," he says around the pill.  
  
The guy smiles.  
  
"M'Harry, babe. Prince Harry. Get it?" he says into Zayn's ear, making him shiver.  
  
When their mouths finally lock, when their tongues touch, the pill dissolving between them, Zayn feels a tremor. His entire body rolls, from his head to his toes, this one continuous wave he swears he'll never feel again. The pill slides out of his mouth, a tongue taking it from him, and he's afraid the kiss is about to end, so he holds tighter. He grabs Harry's face and holds it, holds him still, as he shoves into his mouth harder.  
  
Harry chuckles, grabbing back, biting Zayn's lip, and it's fucking everything.  
  
Later, when he's alone in the booth, when he's floating, his sunglasses on his face, Zayn remembers the tremor, the way the ground shook beneath him.

  
  
***

  
Zayn wakes up the next morning with a piece of paper stuck to his face. He rolls over to face the wall and hears the crinkle of it against his cheek, grabbing for it with slow hands. He scrunches his eyes and realizes it's a list he made the week before, of shit he needs from the store. Clearly he fell into his bed without clearing anything off it, because as he shifts again, he hears more paper ripping down by his feet.  
  
He groans. Hopefully it's nothing important.  
  
Zayn stays in a small studio apartment in a building downtown, a building only a few blocks from the club, thankfully. He stumbled home with his hood up and sunglasses on, the look he's perfected so people don't fuck with him. He might be small, wiry, thin, but when he throws his hood up and scowls, he's tougher. More sure of himself. After Harry, or Prince Harry, whoever the fuck he was, slipped off his lap and back into the crowd, Zayn stayed seated and soared, with his hood up. No one asked if they could have his booth.  
  
Zayn shakes his head and remembers the deal, praying he didn't lose his money, or spend any of it on drinks. But his wallet is fat, just the way he likes, stuffed with money like he always envisioned.  
  
Unlike Jamie, it doesn't matter to Zayn how he makes money, just so long as he has it.  
  
Jamie texted him, Zayn realizes, as he grabs for his phone, eyes still half closed. He wants Zayn to come over for dinner, sit around and eat takeout, to "talk." Zayn almost laughs because J must be out of his fucking mind.  
  
He also has three texts from his regulars, two guys and a girl who all need him that night, need him like they haven't needed him in "so long, Zayn" even though he sold to all of them within the last week. He thinks of his wallet, of how much fatter it could be, so he texts them all back with where he'll be that night.  
  
Zayn Malik doesn't often make his regulars come to him, instead choosing to make his way around the city night after night, dealing and collecting when they need him. But tonight, maybe tomorrow, maybe from now on, they'll come to him.  
  
At a certain club a few blocks away.

  
  
***

  
"So how are things?" Jamie says conversationally, when Zayn finally calls him.  
  
"Fine," Zayn says around the cigarette in his mouth, as he works at pulling apart the engine at Dax's. It's a Mercedes, a nice one, and Zayn's not sure where it came from. Not that he asks. Or cares.  
  
"June said the kids from the west side, the ones whose parents got busted for embezzling, she said they're doing good. They're in our old room."  
  
"S'good," Zayn grunts, as the fan belt snaps against his wrist sharply. "How is J? She good?"  
  
"She's good. Busy. I think they want to give her another kid tomorrow, but I don't think she has the room. I really don't. I wish they'd realize she can't take all of them."  
  
Zayn can hear running water. Jamie's probably doing dishes, or filling the sink to shave. Maybe he's filling a glass of water for his girlfriend, the nice one he said Zayn should meet. He could ask what Jamie's up to, how he is, but Zayn doesn't.  
  
Zayn continues to work, his phone against his shoulder. He figures he can put in another two minutes before he can gracefully say he has to run.  
  
"How's work?" Jamie asks, in a clipped tone.  
  
For all intents and purposes, for Jamie's sake, Zayn works in a garage. He works on cars. He sells parts and changes oil for little old ladies and that's it. He doesn't deal, he doesn't use, he's a working class young man who pays his rent on time and he absolutely does not make out with dancers in clubs.  
  
"It's good, J. But I gotta go, okay? I'll talk to you soon," Zayn rushes now.  
  
Jamie stays silent, angry now.  
  
"You know Zayn, you don't have many people. You know that? You don't have _people_. People you can call, people who want to call you, to ask you bullshit questions about your day. You'd think you'd realize that I'm still fucking here, that I'm still pushing you."  
  
Zayn hangs up on him.

  
  
***

  
Zayn realizes, two months later, that he knows absolutely nothing about Harry. He doesn't know his favorite drink or even what kind of car he drives, if he parks in the back, or if he walks to work. He wonders if his walk is long, if he puts his money in a safe place so no one can rob him. He doesn't know how Harry got the scar over his eyebrow, the deep one, even when Zayn runs his finger across it some nights, the question on the tip of his tongue before Harry gets off him. Zayn usually loves not having to speak to anyone, and he never really thinks about it too much when he's at the club, but… he might like to know Harry's drink. Maybe. Fuck it if he knows why.  
  
Zayn's been dealing almost exclusively out of SPEC since that first night he saw Harry dancing. He seats himself at the furthest booth in the back, an unspoken agreement between him and management, that he can do as he pleases, so long as his customers all buy a drink or throw money to the go-go dancers. It's customary, after all, to give money to the establishment one deals in.  
  
Zayn tips every bartender and bouncer, throws ones to every dancer, and slips his tongue into Harry's mouth with a pill almost every other night.  
  
"Thanks babe," he breathes into Zayn's ear that night, tongue licking at him slightly, teasing.  
  
"You go on soon?" Zayn grips his bare hips, Harry only wearing baggy basketball shorts and Jordans tonight, a get-up Zayn almost laughed at. Harry doesn't look like the athletic type, no matter what his costume may try to convey.  
  
"I do," Harry bites at his ear again, rolling his hips. He's learned Zayn loves it and hates it equally, the fact that Harry sits on him but Zayn can't touch.  
  
"Wear the blue briefs," he growls, as Harry shifts again.  
  
Harry leans back to look at him, a smirk on his face, as Zayn's friend Anthony walks up to them chuckling.  
  
Zayn doesn't have a chance to look up at the stage when Harry comes on. He's busy slipping to Anthony under the table, handing off half the stash he was given at the garage for Anthony to go sell. But when he does look up, Harry's looking at him, wearing the blue briefs Zayn likes, hands running down his chest.  
  
Zayn watches, sips his drink, before lifting a finger. He twirls it and Harry nods, turning around to show his ass off, shaking it, hands against the wall. It's Zayn's favorite view, Harry from the back.  
  
So he keeps watching, his fingers tingling, as his phone lights up in his pocket. It's probably Jamie again, asking for him, reaching for him, and if Zayn were a better person, if he gave a shit about anyone but himself, he would answer it. He'd at least call June and tell her he's alive.  
  
But Harry's on stage, in the blue briefs, so Zayn ignores it. Again.

  
  
***

  
A few weeks later, Zayn shows up to the club already on uppers. He's not meeting anyone tonight, there are no regulars or clients posed to show up at his booth, with bills in their hands. Zayn doesn't need to be there, doesn't need the money that night.  
  
His head hurt earlier, as he ate an apple in his almost empty apartment, after Jamie texted him about being selfish and shitty and a terrible "son."  
  
So he popped a molly. And did a line. Just because.  
  
Because Harry's dancing tonight.  
  
Zayn goes to the stage, gets right up to it, his fingers grasping the edge of it for dear life. He feels like if he lets it go, he'll fall off the face of the earth, like if he doesn't dig his nails into it hard enough, he'll be gone. So he holds tight and looks up at Harry, moving his hips in a circle, the jockstrap he has on pulling at his skin, the soft skin Harry lets Zayn touch sparingly, before flitting away to dance on stages.  
  
Harry looks down at him, his eyes all over the place. Zayn gets it then, Harry's fucked. He got completely obliterated before going on stage, and they stare at each other like deer in headlights, not sure who's the deer and who's the car.  
  
Zayn watches Harry through three more songs, as each one amps up louder and louder, as Zayn sweats through it. Harry's magnetic, his hips moving from side to side, his hands roaming his body, through his hair, across his stomach, up his thighs. He grips at his cock a few times, with a teasing smile, as the men below him go crazy. They throw a few bills on the stage, at his feet. He looks like fucking art. But the money is sparse. Zayn gets angry. Harry's worth more.  
  
When he finally jumps down to the floor, his hands full of a few crumpled ones, he looks at Zayn with intense eyes, and gestures for him to follow. So Zayn does, because his feet feel too big in his boots and he'd follow Harry anywhere, in this club at least. He's tired of watching, he's tired of not touching.  
  
Kanye's voice rings out around them as Harry leads them to the back room, empty of people, but full of bags, shoes, the clothes the guys show up and leave in, normal clothes that make them look like normal guys, instead of guys who dance in their underwear. Zayn's eyes jerk around, taking in the mirrors, the lights, the fucking makeup Zayn didn't realize they must wear. He sees the traces of coke, the pill on the floor, the cracked credit cards on the table. He's about to ask Harry, see which station is Harry's, which chair holds his real clothes, when Harry shoves at him.  
  
Before he knows what's happening, he's against the wall, Harry on his knees, hands on his belt.  
  
"You want my mouth?" Harry breathes onto him, Zayn already hardening up under his gaze.  
  
"Yeah," Zayn grunts, his hands now in Harry's hair.  
  
"What do you have for me?"  
  
"What do you want?"  
  
"I want what you're on," Harry blinks, shamelessly, intensely.  
  
Zayn admires that, he realizes, the brazen attitude Harry has when he wants something. Zayn rarely asks, instead just tells. Or takes orders. So he nods.  
  
He slips a pill into Harry's waiting mouth, before reaching for his coke. He nudges Harry with his foot to back up, before making his way to the closest station. The chair in front of it has a simple brown bag, a pair of black boots beneath it. There's a picture on the mirror, of three smiling faces, two gorgeous women, maybe a mom and a sister, a round man with laughter in his eyes. There are cards from a deck, a few dollars scattered around, a flower.  
  
Zayn has to hurry, his fingers aching, as he makes two quick and sloppy lines with the edge of a King, before grabbing his already rolled twenty. He hears Harry crawling on his knees behind him, shoving him out of the way, grabbing the bill from his hand. He holds one nostril and snorts with the other, the twenty deep in his nose, wincing, flying, as he sits back. Zayn wants to touch him, he doesn't want to wait anymore. But he leans over Harry, as Harry rubs at his nose, chases the itch, and snorts the line like it was the first time, like he was sixteen again.  
  
Harry leans back in, licks at the table, runs his tongue along his gums, before turning back to Zayn.  
  
They both lock eyes and feel it. The mania. Manic and flying and high as a kite, muscles shaking.  
  
Euphoria. It's the drip. The first drip, like cool liquid going down their spines.  
  
And like before, Zayn doesn't know how it happens, but he's back against the wall, now with his jeans and briefs at his feet. He's completely hard now, his head swimming, as Harry looks up at him. Harry sinks on him swiftly, his mouth making a perfect suction around him, and Zayn feels it. He feels it right then, feels it yesterday, feels it a lifetime from now. He looks down to see Harry's concentrated face, cheeks hollow.  
  
Zayn has to feel. His fingers run along Harry's jaw, across his cheeks, along the places he knows the dimples sit dormant half the time. He feels his cock through his cheek, as Harry sucks him harder. The tip of his cock bobs against the back of his throat and his eyes roll in his head.  
  
Harry's good, he's so good at it, as Zayn pulls at his hair.  
  
"You take it so good," he can't help but whisper, all the words running together like one big word, syllables and consonants and vowels, a mess.  
  
Harry groans around him, eyes rolling now too, sucking faster. He runs his hand down Zayn's thigh, under his dick, along his balls, feeling, moving, touching. He lets Zayn out of his mouth to suck at his balls and Zayn very nearly smacks his hand against the wall.  
  
"Let me fuck your mouth, yeah," Zayn says, means it as a question, but it comes out as a regular old sentence.  
  
Harry nods, licks back up his cock, pulling him back in his mouth, stilling his head.  
  
Zayn grabs his hair, hard, pulls him down on his cock as his head gets lighter, as his vision shifts again, as the lights in the room change colors.  
  
"M'gonna come in your mouth, yeah. I'm gonna fuck your mouth," Zayn babbles, still trying to ask a question.  
  
Harry groans again. It's low. Loud. Zayn fucks into his mouth faster, feels Harry sucking, focuses on Harry's nails in the backs of his thighs, maybe drawing blood.  
  
"Fuck," Zayn groans, knowing he won't last much longer.  
  
Harry shoves against him then, pushing off, letting Zayn out of his mouth, to look up at him.  
  
"You gonna fuck my mouth for real, or keep doing it like a fucking girl, hmm?" he challenges, eyes fierce, almost angry.  
  
Zayn grabs his hair even harder, shoves Harry back on his dick, brow furrowed now.  
  
"So you get a line and get brave, s'that it?" Zayn grunts, hips snapping forward, firmer, his cock sliding down Harry's throat. "You want it harder? This hard enough?"  
  
Harry's got tears in his eyes now, from the strain, from the movement. But his hands grip Zayn's thighs, he holds on, his entire body moving with the force of it now, gagging on him. Zayn wipes away the moisture from his cheek, before he comes down his throat, strings of come, grunt after grunt, as Harry takes it.  
  
Zayn's barely slipped out of Harry's mouth before he's shoving at his shoulders, Harry falling on his back on the floor. Zayn's surprised his hands work, as he practically rips off the jockstrap Harry still has on. His hand wraps around Harry's massive cock, the one he'd been hoping to see for months now, and pulls him off as Harry whines through it. He barely lasts, only a few more minutes, before coming in Zayn's hand.  
  
Zayn keeps stroking him, strokes him through it, uses his come to slide his hand up and down, before Harry shoves at him, spent.  
  
They breathe, Harry on his back with his eyes closed, Zayn kneeling between his legs with his eyes closed.  
  
Eventually Harry sits up, eyes heavy, and they look at each other. Zayn places one kiss to Harry's neck, right on his pulse point. And surprisingly, Harry returns the favor, kisses Zayn's neck, just once, lips lingering.  
  
They leave after, Harry to the showers to clean up before heading back into the club to serve cocktails, Zayn to go somewhere else, no where, really.  
  
There are no words exchanged, as they both continue to soar on the end of the high, as they feel the last drips down their spines, the last burst. Harry goes one way and Zayn goes the other, both with their eyes closed.

  
  
***

  
Misery loves company.  
  
Miserable people always find other miserable people.  
  
If Zayn were a better person, a smarter person who listened to one of the few people in his world who actually looked out for him, he would've remember Jamie's old words. _You're so miserable, you should be fucking careful who you fall for, because whoever it is? Probably even more fucked up than you._ He should've remembered it because when he goes to the club two days later to meet a few regulars, Harry's not there.  
  
He's not dancing, because he quit.  
  
And Zayn shouldn't be surprised, but he is. 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

  
The trick to staying alive, when your brain works like Zayn Malik's, is learning not to dwell.  
  
People who dwell on things, who think things through, thoroughly, over and over, are the people who suffer the most. They're the ones in therapy, constantly rehashing and reliving their worst days. They write in journals, keep mementos to remind themselves of experiences, send letters to those far away so they'll remember it all. They think and think and think, until they get headaches, as thoughts and memories cloud their vision. They let past pain and suffering get in the way of _now_ , get in the way of current good moods, okay days, passable experiences.  
  
Zayn Malik doesn't remember anything before he was eleven, so.  
  
He just doesn't give much thought to much of anything. He lives each day like it's the same, nothing special, nothing unique. Because to believe in something when you get out of bed in the morning, to look forward to the day, is to set yourself up for failure. Zayn doesn't think about the pain he's in, the pain he went through. He doesn't dwell on the fact that he's alone and enjoys it, the fact that he's no one and no where, or the fact that he's a heartless person and doesn't mind.  
  
He doesn't cry when he remembers his pitiful birthdays over the years, the cakes June made, the candles he blew out with Jamie clapping his shoulders. He doesn't wonder where his family is, if they wanted him but couldn't keep him, or if he was a mistake, just a piece of trash with a note in his onesie. He doesn't think about why he does the things he does, why he gets high every night, why he needs it, because he doesn't really care.  
  
Zayn Malik isn't a loving person. He's not someone other people view as viable, or important, or necessary. He's a kid in a hood, wandering around the city with a fat wallet and a bag of pills, someone who could disappear off the face of the earth and no one would even know.  
  
Jamie and June would know, sure. But they're not his family, not really. Because June gets a check from the state every month to take care of foster kids, and Jamie already has a mom who just happened to get arrested with a needle in her arm, and they're fine, and Zayn came into this world alone.  
  
But he doesn't think about any of it.  
  
It just is what it is. Zayn flicks his lighter when his hands shake, but he doesn't wonder why.

  
  
***

  
Zayn was surprised Harry quit, but he also wasn't. Because Harry never told him what he liked to drink, Zayn never saw if he had a car or walked to work, and he blew Zayn in a shitty back room, in a jockstrap, so he could get a pill and a line.  
  
Those were choices Harry made. So Zayn doesn't care.  
  
Zayn carries through with his deals that night, as a stranger dances on the stage near him, a new guy with a lip ring and a tattoo down his back. Zayn doesn't look at him for long, because he dances too _good_ , like he took classes, like he learned from a professional how to move his body to earn money. It's rehearsed and robotic, and even though the guys on the dance floor go crazy for him, for fresh meat, Zayn thinks he looks fucking ridiculous.  
  
He makes good money that night, great money, not just from his regulars who met up with him, but from other guys who heard through the bartenders that the guy in the back booth knows how to party. Zayn texts Dax, tells him he'll have his cut tomorrow morning, and slips a cigarette between his lips.  
  
As he tips the bartenders and bouncers, after he nods at the manager Kenny in the back, he gives one final lingering glance to the new dancer on stage. He sees Zayn looking and winks at him, a big over the top wink Zayn would smack with his hand if he could. Zayn looks away, looks at his feet, and walks out of the club.  
  
He never goes back.

  
  
***

  
Zayn Malik hardly thinks of Harry. He doesn't think about the feel of his hips in his hands, the way he used to run his tongue along Zayn's neck. He doesn't think about his smell, how it wasn't off putting or too harsh, just clean and a little bit sweaty. He doesn't think about the fact that Harry's scent used to cling to his shirts sometimes, on nights when Harry had an extra minute and would sit in his lap longer, fingers running through his hair, as they ate a pill together. He doesn't think about his laugh, the scar on his eyebrow, the rings on his fingers, the shitty tattoos across his chest, the hair he threw off his face, the way he coughed into his fist.  
  
He doesn't think of any of it, not consciously, not on purpose, because Zayn never learned, never knew, what it meant to crave a person.  
  
Zayn doesn't like to think about anything when he's high, so he doesn't.

  
  
***

  
June's little house on Hendricks Avenue is the only place Zayn knows on the most basic level. It's the only place he remembers living as a kid and then as a teenager, so he knows every crack in the walls, every creak in the floor. To this day, he still knows the best way to sneak in and out of the bedroom window, how to hop from the desk to the top bunk like a pro, without waking Jamie on the bunk below, without June knowing he ever left.  
  
Zayn remembers the day he got dropped off at June's. It was a Tuesday, overcast, towards the end of February. The social worker kept a hand on his shoulder the entire way to the door, something he hated, being touched. He remembers walking up the three busted concrete steps, his trainers too small on his feet, a backpack over his shoulder, his hair in his eyes.  
  
When she opened the door and saw him, she smiled like she'd been waiting for him all along. June, with her long grey hair in a braid, in her dusty old jeans, glasses perched on her nose, smiled at Zayn like no one ever had before. It was warm, motherly, sweet. Zayn gripped his backpack in his hands, as she showed him around the house, showed him to his room. The bottom bunk was already taken by a kid, a kid under a blanket, only his feet sticking out. June told him Jamie was new to the system, was overwhelmed, was having a hard day and wanted to be alone. So they ate dinner just the two of them that night, at the rickety wooden table in the kitchen. She made Hamburger Helper, and it's still the best meal Zayn's ever had.  
  
The next day at school, a new school, with new kids with rougher backgrounds, someone shoved Zayn to the ground and told him to fuck off. It was Jamie who picked him up by the collar, Jamie who glared at anyone who passed them afterwards, Jamie who shook Zayn's hand, like a man, for the very first time.  
  
Zayn Malik doesn't like to think too often, especially about his past, but as he walks up the stairs for dinner, finally, after months of Jamie begging, he remembers the first time he walked up these stairs, the first dinner, his very first handshake, the way he and Jamie used to cling to each other like brothers when the world got too loud.  
  
He just wishes he belonged here. Belonged anywhere.  
  
It's not his home, not really.  
  
June greets him with a hug, the hug she's known for, and Jamie grasps his shoulder tightly, tells him he looks tired, which, yeah he definitely does. She tells them as they set the table that the kids she has at the moment all went for pizza and a movie, with the money they've saved mowing lawns in the neighborhood, her voice dripping with pride. She casually mentions that Jamie and Zayn need to come by more often, to show the kids how good they are, how well they're doing as adults, "her boys."  
  
Zayn's never mowed a lawn in his life, he thinks, as he slaps at his pockets, to double check he still has his wallet and phone.  
  
"How's it going at the garage?" June asks him later, as she serves them mashed potatoes from the same chipped yellow bowl she always serves from.  
  
"Alright. Not too busy lately. Blessing and a curse, I guess," Zayn says quietly, sipping his water.  
  
Jamie gives him a look.  
  
"And how is school?" she smiles at Jamie, voice dripping again.  
  
"It's great. It's really great. I moved into an apartment right near campus, this little place. But it's nice, you know? And I think Cara might move in eventually, once we work the details out," he nods, taking a bite of chicken.  
  
June smiles as she eats, makes a face like she's so proud of them both. She gives a warm smile to Zayn, and his cheeks get hot.  
  
But Jamie looks at Zayn again, with the look he gives when he's pissed but doesn't want to give it away.  
  
"Cara is my girlfriend," he says to Zayn. "She's really great. I want you to meet her."  
  
Zayn nods.  
  
"Alright, I will."  
  
"When?"  
  
"Whenever."  
  
Jamie only makes a noise at that, a scoff, as he picks at his food. Zayn just shrugs, looks down at his plate, not very hungry. He slaps at his pockets again, makes sure his lighter is next to his phone. He had the foresight to remember to put a joint in with his cigarettes, sure he'd need it, and he was right on the money because he's itching to leave, itching to get something between his fingers.  
  
"Your wallet is still there," Jamie says in a deep voice, angry, pissed, gripping his fork.  
  
June runs interference, knows it's turning south, the whole dinner. She grabs for Jamie's other hand, asks him another question about school, and it works, sort of. They start talking about his classes and what he's learned so far, the books he's read, the people he's meeting at his job in the bookstore.  
  
Zayn eats his food as quickly as possible.  
  
He's almost in the clear, he can see the finish line. Just a few more minutes before he can fake a "work emergency," before he can run out the door and say he has a bus to catch. He's itching now, his skin begins to crawl. He needs something, anything. But June catches him off guard.  
  
"I'm glad you're here," she says in a whisper, grabbing his hand.  
  
"Yeah, s'good. I'll try and get back more often," he nods, lying.  
  
"Family is important, Zayn. You know? Everyone needs family. You want a family, right?" she questions, eyes wide.  
  
Jamie stares at him, face open, like he's about to burst with something, something on the tip of his tongue. They're waiting, they need an answer.  
  
They're asking a question.  
  
Zayn just nods, a shrug, as he stands up and slaps at his pockets again.  
  
That's it, that's all he'll do tonight. They all realize it at the same time, as Zayn makes his way around the table to give June a kiss on the cheek, to put a hand on Jamie's head. It's his goodbye, his _see you soon, maybe, but don't get your hopes up,_ and then he's out the door.  
  
He skips the joint entirely and instead does a bump of coke right there on the bus.

  
  
***

  
Zayn starts with the first bar on Santa Monica Boulevard, the first one in the long line of gay bars in the notorious "gay neighborhood" of Los Angeles. It's far from downtown, Zayn had Anthony drop him off, but it seemed to make the most sense to come here. The bar is small, cramped, pretentious. It's not exactly the type of place to hire go-go dancers, and Zayn quickly realizes it's for the older crowd anyways, the guys and lesbians with kids, probably, and mortgages, out for one quick drink before "The Tonight Show" starts.  
  
The second bar is better, bigger, louder. It's crowded, packed with hot men, dancing and laughing together. But no dancers, no stages, no cages.  
  
The third bar is full of dancers, guys on small stages together, touching, dancing. They dance near the DJ, on the bar, in the middle of the dance floor, all in briefs and boxers and thongs. They're muscular, tan, masculine. Each of them could probably throw Zayn a few feet, if they tried. One has pair of cat ears on his head, and it's stupid, but he has a ton of money in his g-string, so maybe some people are into it. Zayn asks around, gets in with a few bartenders, _but no Prince here, sorry man._  
  
Zayn checks every bar up and down the street, on both sides, looking, searching. He sees a tall guy with curly hair at one of the last ones, gyrating on an old dude, his dick right in his face as the music pounded around them, but it wasn't Harry. His eyes looked dead anyways.  
  
No Harry, no Prince, no where.  
  
So Zayn smokes a joint as he waits hours later for Anthony to come back. Because he tried, for whatever reason, to find a new place to deal in, perhaps the same place Harry worked.  
  
But that's all the work he'll put into Harry, that's the last time he'll look for him, he decides.  
  
He won't be disappointed. He won't let himself.

  
  
***

  
Zayn goes on a bender for three days straight, in the apartment of one of Dax's friends, somewhere on the west side. They snort everything, which is more convenient, faster than taking the pills, better than smoking weed, not as filling as drinking. He eats a few mushrooms at one point, something he hasn't done in years, but he felt like seeing colors change back and forth, looked forward to the vacation he could take, maybe to South America or something, somewhere he can fly to.  
  
A guy sucks his dick, as he's flying over the ocean, as he holds his arms out like wings, but really just has them draped over the couch.  
  
The vacation is sick.  
  
He flies and flies and flies, the drip down his spine tingles, and at one point he laughs so hard he feels like the blood vessels in his eyes are popping. So then he spends a few hours staring at himself in the mirror in the bathroom, waiting for the whites of his eyes to turn red, sure something popped, almost positive.  
  
Carlos and David come join at some point, now that Zayn knows and likes them, and they bring more people. It's a party, it's massive, and Zayn flies and tingles and laughs, and when it's all over, when he finally stumbles down the stairs to the street, he feels like he could sleep for two days.  
  
So he does.

  
  
***

  
"Hey Kenny, it's… uh, it's Zayn," he mumbles into his phone, rubbing the sleep from his eyes days later.  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Uh, Zayn. I used to throw parties in your back booth."  
  
"Oh fuck, of course. Zayn. What's going on? You haven't been here in awhile."  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, I know. But uh… I need to know where Harry went. Or like, where Prince went. If you knew, if he told you, where he was headed."  
  
Zayn hears a laugh, a small chuckle, as Kenny shuffles papers on the other end of the phone.  
  
"He told me, yeah. I know where he is."

  
  
***

  
Zayn smokes a cigarette nervously before walking in, before opening the door for the first time. Because he knows it'll probably be the first of many, the first time he'll step into this club, following after Harry like a fucking puppy. He doesn't know why he needs it, why he wants to see Harry again, why it even matters. But he decides to stop thinking, to ignore the itch under his skin, and pulls at the blackened door.  
  
It's a strip club. A real, honest strip club. It's not a bar, or a night club with hot dancers in their underwear, with cat ears as a fun flare, boys in cages, shaking their asses for guys for a few dollars.  
  
It's a strip club.  
  
Zayn works his way around the back, where the bar wraps around the large circular room, with various stages and poles, flashing lights, thumping music to drown out the moans coming from the private rooms. Naked men grip the poles, shaking, thrusting their hard cocks into faces, a few hands sneaking up their legs from men with hundreds.  
  
There's not a "no touching" rule here. Gay strip clubs are known for it, for being shameless, for encouraging touching, and blow jobs, and fucking, if it's agreed upon, if the money's good.  
  
He's been here for three fucking minutes and he's already seen a customer jizzing in his jeans, as a dancer rubs his ass against him furiously, hands behind him to grip the back of his hair.  
  
The main stage, down a few steps and towards the front, features one stripper at a time, every twenty minutes, the bouncer said, so Zayn waits. He knows Harry will be on it soon, he's a natural, even if his body and his tattoos and his face are all wrong for it. Here, tonight, Harry's not a side dancer, not someone they stick on poles to roll his hips without a care in the world, people throwing money at his feet because they're supposed to.  
  
Harry must've come here for a reason, must've needed the money, the lights, the drugs that are probably better here.  
  
Zayn doesn't want to be seen yet, not by Harry, not by anyone, so he gets a drink and sits at the bar, hidden from the lights, and waits.  
  
They announce him not long after, one of their "new favorites," the DJ bellowing over the speakers, as men meandering near the bar and small back stages make their way to the area near the stage. Some settle at tables, clinking glasses, laughing in groups, queens looking for a new boy to play with. Some men are alone, nervous, pushing glasses up their noses, pulling at their dad jeans with sweaty hands. Zayn stays put, stays back.  
  
_Here he is, boys. Please welcome Prince to the stage._  
  
And there he is, Harry, in a pair of grey sweatpants and a simple white tshirt, Nikes on his feet. His hair falls in his eyes as he stands on the stage, smiling at the audience, face lit up, bright, open. He waves to a few guys in front, winks, as the song starts. It's not a routine. There's not a "dance number," no unnecessary motions, no choreography.  
  
It's simple, really. It's Harry, on a stage, stripping.  
  
The song has a good beat to it, a beat Harry must like, because he instantly bounces.  
  
_Show me yours, I'll show you mine, don't you worry, you're too fine._  
  
First it's the tshirt, up and over his head, tossed to the crowd as he rolls his body a few times. Zayn knows this part well, the way Harry runs his hands across his chest and stomach, touching himself for the sake of others. Then it's the sweatpants, Harry with his back to the crowd, his fingers slipping under the waistband, playfully. He looks over his shoulder with a smirk. _You want me to?_  
  
And they do. The crowd yells for him, laughs with him, some men grabbing hands as they watch.  
  
He shakes his ass, furiously, clapping it, his little ass, as he shimmies the sweatpants over the curve of it, bending at the waist entirely, as they fall to his feet.  
  
When he turns around, he's in red briefs, tight ones, his cock hard, and knee pads. He rolls again, grabs his hair, gets close to the edge of the stage and plays it up. He sinks to his knees, as a guy reaches for him, a bill in his hand. Harry smiles, big and bright, as he thumbs at his briefs. The guy leans over, looks down them, must get an eyeful, because when he looks back to Harry's face, it's with awe and lust. He shoves the money into the waistband, before Harry slowly gets back to his feet.  
  
He dances around the stage, as more money gets thrown to his feet, the crowd getting antsy. They want it all, it seems, they want all of Harry in all his glory.  
  
So does Zayn. He bites his straw.  
  
_Some like fast, and some like slow._  
  
Harry plays the same game again, turning around, his back to the crowd, fingers in the waistband of his briefs, smirking over his shoulder. _You sure you want me to?_  
  
And they do. They really fucking do. Because the cheers get louder.  
  
He shakes again, swiftly pulls the back of them down over his ass, bouncing from side to side to the beat, as more money falls to his feet. Zayn bites his straw harder as Harry bends over, shows himself to the room, the crowd of men looking at him like he's fucking food, like they could eat him up.  
  
He turns around so they get the full experience, so they can see him reveal himself from the front, and pulls the briefs down slower, his cock bouncing out, slapping his stomach. It's slow, the way he moves his body, the briefs slowly going down his legs, around his knees, to his ankles, before he kicks them off into the crowd.  
  
And there he is, naked. Harry, naked on a stage, for a massive crowd.  
  
Zayn looks at the men below the stage, at the ones hollering for Prince, telling him what to do, what they want to see. He sinks to his knees again, pulls at his hair as he bounces up and down, like he's riding someone. He closes his eyes and throws his head back as he rolls his hips, his cock right there for everyone to see up close, a few guys reaching for him, running their hands up his thighs.  
  
As the song winds down, as he gets back to his feet, he turns again and bends over, before rolling his body again, swerving his hips, more money falls at his feet.  
  
Zayn vaguely hears the bartenders murmuring behind him, about how the kid's good, how they'll probably keep him for another song or two. And they do, because the first song blends seamlessly into a second song, and then a third. Harry dances through it all, completely naked and open and free, up on that stage in front of strangers.  
  
Zayn's hard at the end, as Harry bows and winks, as someone backstage throws him a black thong. He slips it on as the lights dim, barely covering him, probably on purpose, as people back away from the stage and start moving around the room again, to the smaller platforms with guys on poles, to the bathrooms, to the private rooms to get off, to suck and bite and play. Harry gets his money, swipes his hands along the stage, making a big pile, grabbing it, stuffing some of it next to his dick, a small smile on his face, before disappearing backstage.

  
  
***

  
They lock eyes as an old Usher songs plays, the one about him seeing a girl who looked like his ex, as Zayn settles in a seat near an empty platform, with a lonely pole, no one to dance for him. Harry sees him sipping his beer, and Zayn almost laughs, the look on Harry's face, the way he's wearing nothing but the black thong from before and a plastic gold crown on his head, his curls twisting around his face.  
  
But then Harry's face splits into a grin, a wide one with dimples, as he stumbles to Zayn.  
  
And before Zayn knows it, Harry's in his lap like old times, thighs on either side of his, hands in his hair, Harry grinning in his face.  
  
"Babe," he laughs, fingers running along Zayn's neck.  
  
"Hey," Zayn nods once, smiling back.  
  
"You found me. I'm so glad," Harry purrs.  
  
Zayn grips his hip with one hand, a little harder than he normally would, because he's glad too, and that's how he says so. They whisper back and forth, _how have you been, good I hope, me too, that's good._  
  
But Zayn doesn't really listen, because to listen means to think and commit it all to memory, so he just speaks when he thinks he should, says bullshit as Harry leans against him, breath against his neck, nails in his hair, tongue against his ear. He goes with muscle memory, let's himself feel it, the weight of him, the feeling of his skin. He feels and feels, and thinks he'd like to fly tonight, with Harry, if he'd like, so he pushes against Harry's chest lightly.  
  
"S'it been good here?" he says, eyes hooded, cock straining in his jeans.  
  
"The money's amazing here," Harry nods, like it's a relief. "I needed it, you know? I needed it all, so. Here I am."  
  
"That's good," Zayn whispers, finger at the scar on Harry's eyebrow.  
  
Harry just smiles wider, nods, hands on Zayn's neck, like he really is glad to see him after all this time, and he hasn't even asked to party yet.  
  
"I'm glad you found me," Harry smiles, sincerely, sweetly, reading Zayn's mind.  
  
And Zayn's sort of fucked, he thinks.  
  
"You wanna go someplace? You wanna fly?" Zayn whispers, serious now, smile gone.  
  
Harry nods, his smile gone as well.  
  
So Harry grabs his hand and leads him to the back, to the private rooms, with stained couches and floors that smell like spilled whiskey. They pass a few, a few with wide open doors, guys with strippers riding them, blowing them, snorting powders from cracked CDs, partying in groups, partying with guys who all need the same releases. They finally get to an empty room, Harry shoving at Zayn lightly, to sit, to get comfortable.  
  
Harry shuts the door, closes the world off, and they're alone in a dimly lit room, with a couch and a pole, music coming through the speaker, something slower, sensual, sexy. Zayn briefly wonders if Harry would dance just for him sometime, in this room, another night maybe. Maybe Harry reads his mind because as he climbs back into his lap, he's already nodding.  
  
Zayn doesn't have them share this time, instead grabbing two pills from the bag in his pocket, lightly placing one on Harry's tongue, before taking his own. He waits for the dissolve, for the bite to hit his saliva as it melts, before leaning in to kiss Harry again, like old times. Their tongues push, they bite, Harry's hands in Zayn's hair, Zayn's fingers digging into his hips.  
  
They start to feel it at the same time, Zayn can tell, the telltale moans coming from Harry's throat. Zayn licks at his mouth, along his bottom lip first, back and forth, his nerve endings all awakening at once, his skin tingling. But he knows then, that they're about to roll too far off the cliff, so he bites Harry's lip a final time before pulling back.  
  
Zayn takes a bump first, from the corner of an old hotel key card he keeps in his wallet, before offering one to Harry. They rub noses for a second, chasing the itch, eyes screwed up, as the coke hits the backs of their throats, shoots to their brains, the drip drip drip down their spines. Harry smiles and nods, and Zayn knows, bumping again, offering another to Harry.  
  
Zayn knows he pulls at Harry's hair too hard, that it probably hurts, but he can't stop. They're about to take off then, together, at the same time, skin on fire and icy and sweaty and dry, Harry grinding on him, rubbing their erections together. If it hurts, if Zayn's pulling too hard, Harry doesn't say so. He grinds harder, moans against Zayn's mouth.  
  
And as Zayn flies, as he flies over the ocean, he takes his hands away from Harry, lays them against the back of the couch, hands wide, reaching out, and he smiles, as Harry bites at his neck. Zayn wonders, as he flies and rolls and soars, if Harry's over the ocean too, or if he's somewhere else.  
  
"Where are you?" Zayn hears himself ask, tongue heavy, words running together.  
  
"Where are _you?"_ Harry bites into his skin.  
  
"Over the Pacific. You ever been on a plane?" Zayn wonders, never having been on one himself, only knowing what the ocean looks like overhead from scenes in movies.  
  
"Yeah," Harry moans, grinding his hips down, Zayn hissing.  
  
"Let's go there."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
So they do. They fly, for what feels like hours, touching, biting, tasting. Harry must not be able to handle it, because without realizing it, Zayn feels the movement. He brings his head up from the couch and sees his wallet next to his hand, the condom and lube he normally keeps tucked in there, sitting next to it.  
  
He focuses, his eyes trying so hard to focus on Harry's face, his head thrown back, mind probably still over the ocean, two fingers deep. He didn't even take off the thong, Zayn realizes, just shoved it to the side, fingering himself, stretching. If he could move better, if he could figure out where he was for the last few minutes while this began, he'd reach out and touch, but instead he just watches.  
  
He watches Harry open himself up, his cock hard and fat, trapped beneath the fabric, wet at the tip. Zayn finally reaches for him, rubs his palm against Harry's erection, a slow moan escaping his lips as he does so. He needs it, he needs it so bad, needs something, whatever Harry wants to give him on this shitty couch, in a cramped room with a pole, and Harry grips at his neck harder.  
  
Zayn fumbles for the condom, finally undoes his jeans, pulls his cock out of his briefs and slides it on, lubes himself. It's like he watches himself from the ceiling, because he's surprised he even can think this far ahead. He finally shoves at Harry's hand, and Harry follows along. He brings his head back up, opens his eyes slowly, to see Zayn. They eye each other, pupils black as night, sweaty, needy. Harry tries to lean over without falling, to slip the thong off once and for all, his limbs heavy, dead weight. But he does it, and Zayn's proud of him, and he almost says so, when Harry speaks first.  
  
"You gonna fuck me?" Harry asks, as he pushes up to his knees, hovering over Zayn.  
  
"Yeah," he grunts.  
  
"You gonna fuck me so I feel it for days?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Harry sinks onto him, his hole catching the tip of Zayn's dick so deliciously, he groans with it, fingers digging into Harry's hips like he can't let go. It might hurt, he's sure it hurts, but Harry chases it, fingers digging into Zayn's forearms.  
  
When he's seated, once Zayn's buried deep in his ass, Harry closes his eyes and smiles, throws his head back again, and all Zayn can see now are miles of skin, acres of muscle, from Harry's dick to his neck, an endless plane of blood vessels and veins and moles and freckles and nipples. Zayn zeros in on each imperfection, each little scar he never noticed before, each hitch of Harry's breath and Zayn wonders if Harry's lungs are strong enough for how harsh he's breathing.  
  
His hands leave Harry's hips, instead traveling across his stomach, up his chest, to his neck, touching and grasping, as Harry bounces on his cock, as he rides Zayn like a fucking horse at a county fair, as he clenches around him, to feel it, too.  
  
Zayn wants him to come without touching his cock, and maybe Harry can still read his mind, because his hands grip the back of the couch now, as Zayn keeps touching. Zayn feels his orgasm building, the tug in his stomach, the punch to his chest, knows it's coming, so he finally moves and shoves his hips up, right as Harry grinds down. Harry cries out then, feels Zayn pressing into him harder.  
  
It happens as Zayn's hands wind around Harry's throat, not tight, not in anger, not to cause pain, but just as his thumbs press lightly against his trachea, that's when Harry comes. That's when he shoots it up his chest, come coating his stomach, the skin and muscles Zayn could watch move all day, his cry working its way out of his belly. Zayn follows right after, his fingers gripping his neck a little harder, as Harry comes down. He fills the condom and grunts through it, feels Harry circling his hips slightly.  
  
And when Harry slumps against his chest, when his head falls to Zayn's shoulder, Zayn allows himself to smell his hair, just a little, nose knocking against the plastic crown Harry's still wearing. Because he's a prince and it's a costume, because this is his job, sort of.  
  
They fly over the ocean for a while longer, even after Harry lifts himself off Zayn, removes the condom, ties it off and throws it over his shoulder.  
  
He stays in Zayn's lap, their fingers running along arms and backs and necks, through hair, lips roaming.  
  
Zayn looks into Harry's eyes, wild, sweating, as Harry slowly leans back. They look at each other, silent. Because Zayn took up Harry's time, took him away from customers and dancing and roaming the floor, took him away from old men with cash, wanting him, shoving bills into his hands and the fabric against his hips. Zayn doesn't know if he's supposed to pay, or if the trip was enough, so he begs Harry with his eyes to tell him what to do.  
  
Maybe Harry hates himself, maybe he doesn't, Zayn doesn't know, Zayn doesn't ask. But when Harry nods, mouth shaking slightly, Zayn slips the money out of his wallet, slowly, before handing it over.  
  
And when they separate, when Harry leaves him on that couch, as Zayn comes down, they both have their eyes closed.

  
  
***

  
Zayn has a new spot. He knew it the second he walked out of the strip club, that he'd be dealing there from now on. He just moves right in, without a second guess, without wondering if he should, if he's allowed.  
  
He plants himself at the same table, every other night, near the main stage but far enough away so he can sit inconspicuously away from the lights, hidden in the shadows. His regulars, the ones who consider him a "friend," think it's hilarious that they're showing up at a gay strip club for their needs now. A few won't do it, so Zayn goes to them, when he can, because they pay him and don't make a fuss.

He forgets everything, and just deals and exchanges and watches Harry dance and fucks him in their private room after, and it's always a great trip.  
  
But Zayn's usually smarter, usually uses his fucking brain before making decisions. And if he had told Dax, or Anthony, or anyone else in his world what he was doing, they would've reminded him. They would've made him remember his old saying, _don't stay, don't play, don't let them see you sweat,_ first of all. But they also would've asked him if he checked it first, if he talked to management, or took a lay of the land, before setting up shop.  
  
They would've reminded him, is the thing, to check if this particular strip club already had its own dealer, already had someone selling from the opposite corner, if it had already been claimed.  
  
Zayn didn't tell Dax, or Anthony, or anyone else. He didn't double check, he didn't clear it, he didn't use his fucking brain.  
  
So when the guy across the club sees him handing bags under the table, sees him cutting lines with his old hotel card for Harry and his stripper friends, when he gets pissed and starts asking around, _who's the guy in the hood, we sell here, not this little fucker,_ Zayn doesn't even see it.  
  
He doesn't see it because Harry's on stage, wearing what Zayn asked him to wear, taking his clothes off.  
  
And Zayn can't look away, can't focus on anything else, doesn't know what's going on around him, when Harry's on stage.

  
  
***

  
"Are you coming to dinner tonight?"  
  
That's the first thing Jamie says, when Zayn finally answers his phone, weeks after their last dinner, in his bed, papers ripping and shifting down by his feet. He didn't even take off his boots from the night before, and he's kicking himself for it now.  
  
He rubs at his nose, chases the itch from only a few hours ago, and tries to prepare his answer, when Jamie cuts him off.  
  
"You're not, right? You're busy? You have shit to do? People to see?" he hisses angrily, as Zayn moves the phone away from his ear.  
  
Zayn stays quiet.  
  
"You're so fucking selfish, Zayn. Do you know that? That you're the most selfish fucking person I've ever met? I'm bringing Cara tonight. Don't you get it? That I want her to meet my family, even if you're fucked up, and a shit head? Don't you get it? I want her to meet my brother, Zayn."  
  
Zayn hangs up on him.

  
  
***

  
That night when he shows up at the club, Zayn's already on uppers. He's not meeting anyone tonight, there are no regulars or clients posed to show up at his table, with bills in their hands. Zayn doesn't need to be there, doesn't need the money that night.  
  
But he's missing another dinner, on purpose, because June's not his mom, and Jamie's not his brother, and he doesn't want to meet anyone new.  
  
So he popped a molly. And did a line. Just because.  
  
Because Harry's dancing tonight.  
  
He hides in the shadows, back by the bar, his mind racing, sweating, antsy. He feels like a bomb, like he's about to burst from the inside out, as he tugs at the hood covering his head. Harry's supposed to be on, and if he can watch Harry, if he can eat Harry up, maybe if they fly, maybe if they get the itch together, he'll come down.  
  
Maybe maybe maybe.  
  
Harry comes on, does his routine, the moves Zayn knows by heart now. Side to side, smirk over his shoulder, ass out, cock out, on his knees. He dances, leans down and lets men touch him, lets their hands feel his skin.  
  
He dances for four continuous songs now, Prince, the best boy they have, the most popular, so says the sign outside. And Zayn watches, wrings his hands together, wants to run to the stage and pull him down so they can go be alone.  
  
But when Harry hops off the stage, after he grabs his money and walks around the crowd, hands tugging his arms, pulling for him, before Zayn can get to him, Zayn sees it. Harry holds hands with an old man, in his sixties, with a gut, in cowboy boots, a handle bar mustache. Harry grabs his arm excitedly, like they're old friends, or lovers, or fuck buddies. He turns around and heads towards the private rooms, the guy's other hand on his ass, already pulling his briefs down.  
  
Zayn doesn't explicitly think it, not really, because he tries not to think about anything when he's high.  
  
He doesn't put the thought together… but as he walks back out the door, as he walks and walks and walks, towards the bus stop, slapping his pockets to make sure he has his phone and his wallet and his lighter and his cigarettes and his keys and the coke and the pills, he's fucking miserable.  
  
He's also miserable when three guys in hoods beat the shit out of him, right there on the corner, under a street lamp and everything, feet in his ribs, knuckles across his jaw and cheekbones, blood in his eyes and in his mouth.  
  
He breathes through it, tries to configure his brain and think, as he sprawls there on the concrete, as the bus drives right past him.  
  
He's really, really fucking miserable.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come discuss with me: this-onegoes.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

The Dodgers starting lineup stare at Zayn from the ceiling, the poster's edge peeling. He pokes it with his finger, feels the tape coming off, and thinks he'll have to redo it, again. J.D. Drew smirks at him, Jeff Kent wears a slight tough-guy frown, Ricky Ledée looks confused, but in a good way, the way that makes his eyebrows all scrunched and scowly, but like, it was sort of cute, and Zayn kinda likes it, he thinks.  
  
Zayn's been told he does that with his own eyebrows sometimes, so he brings his finger down to his face and pushes at the hairs there.  
  
"Hey J? You awake?"  
  
"Yeah," Jamie grunts from the bottom bunk, shifting, mattress springs squeaking.  
  
"I can't sleep."  
  
"I can tell."  
  
Zayn continues to trace his eyebrow with his finger, smoothing it, over and over.  
  
"I really like it here. Do you?"  
  
"Yeah. I think I like it," Jamie says with a cough, probably into his pillow like he does sometimes in his sleep.  
  
"You ever think, like… like maybe June will adopt us? Like maybe we'll never have to leave?"  
  
It was the first time Zayn Malik had ever said that out loud.  
  
Zayn and Jamie had been at June's for eight months, eight months of dinners at the same table, and homework in the living room, and bus rides to school. Zayn's bed was officially his bed, no one else's, and Jamie's breath beneath him was the only thing that would put him to sleep. June got him new shoes, ones that didn't pinch his toes, and she took them to a Dodgers game in the summer, which was cool.  
  
Zayn spent so long in and out of random foster homes, with people who just wanted checks, people who didn't really think much of him. And the group home was crowded and felt like a big room full of nobodies.  
  
He thinks he'd like to stay with June. With Jamie.  
  
"I mean, my mom's supposed to be out soon. So like, I'll probably go home then," Jamie says with a sniffle.  
  
"Yeah but like, if she can't come back for a while. Or like, maybe you stay here anyways, you know?"  
  
"She's my mom, Zayn," Jamie hisses. "When she's out of jail, I'm going home. This isn't my house."  
  
Zayn pokes at his poster again, feels it with his finger.  
  
"But I don't want to be here without you," Zayn whispers, biting into his lip.  
  
"Maybe June will adopt you, I don't know. Maybe. Maybe after I go home, after my mom's better again, a new kid will come in, and you can hang with him. And maybe you can come see my house. You can see my room. Or I can visit sometimes, maybe."  
  
"Maybe."  
  
The corner of the poster comes off completely, the tape gives out, from Zayn touching it, from him trying in vain to keep it stuck to the ceiling. Jamie shifts beneath him again, shakes the entire bunk bed a little. And not long after, his breath evens out.  
  
Zayn listens to it, the rhythm of it, inhale, exhale, and eventually he falls asleep, too.

  
  
***

  
That's what Zayn thinks about, as he lays bloodied on the concrete on the corner near Harry's strip club, that conversation with Jamie, about wanting to belong some place.  
  
It's hazy to him now, with age, with his brain addled from poison and chemicals. But he remembers that Dodgers poster, and the way Jamie's breathing helped him sleep. He remembers _remembering_ the foster families and group home, but he can't recall those details now. He just knows a family never adopted him, no one ever looked at his file, no one ever even attempted to keep him.  
  
Jamie's mom never got better, not entirely. When she got out of jail, she was supposed to stay at a halfway house to clean up, before she could have Jamie back. It never really worked. Even when June took Jamie to visit her, even when Jamie held her hand and begged her to get clean so they could go home, she kept using, kept getting caught, kept going back to jail. She's still there, in a cell somewhere, in a place Jamie never visits.  
  
Jamie, like Zayn, stayed with June until he turned 18. June never legally adopted them because she said the process was tedious, said adopting meant the state wouldn't let her have as many foster kids. And there were a lot of kids who needed her, who needed the third bedroom, needed Zayn and Jamie to show them how to be good. But she always told them, her boys, that she loved them, that they were hers, every night when she shut the light off in their room. Jamie never minded, because during those early years he said he had a mom already, while Zayn spent those years secretly wishing he'd belong to someone for real, legally, finally, somehow.  
  
It never happened.  
  
He'll always be grateful to June, for keeping him all those years, for kissing his cheek when he got good grades, for showing him how to fend for himself, fix a leaky pipe, for helping him learn what a steady routine was.  
  
But when he turned 18, two months after Jamie, officially "out of the system," after they had a fight about it not mattering if it wasn't on paper, because they were _a fucking family, Zayn,_ he moved out without a backwards glance, to the studio he has now, to work with Dax.  
  
He's been dealing ever since, for three years now, which he sometimes can't believe. He calls Jamie sometimes, goes to have dinner with June every so often, but that's it. They're not his family.  
  
Zayn Malik doesn't have a family.  
  
He doesn't have anyone.  
  
That's what runs through his mind as his lungs expand, as his left eye starts to swell shut. He thinks about June and how she used to tuck him in for the first few months after he arrived on her doorstep, her hand in his hair. He thinks about Jamie's breathing, and the way his eyes would narrow whenever someone looked at Zayn wrong. He thinks about his bedroom on Hendricks Ave, and how the day after he moved out, it was already occupied by another kid with no parents, another kid with a file folder in his hand, not because June forgot him or wanted him gone, but because she's the best fucking person he's ever met.  
  
He thinks and thinks and thinks, which he hates himself for, because he doesn't like to think about anything when he's high, but it's like he can't stop now. Because he's alone alone alone, with blood in his mouth and what he assumes to be a cracked phone in his jeans, beaten up and bloodied from, who he now guesses, to be the guys he saw giving him looks from the opposite booth in the club.  
  
He stays there on the ground for a long time, staring up at the sky. He'd smack his pockets, see if he still has all his shit, but his arms hurt, so he doesn't.  
  
 _"Zayn?"_  
  
Zayn groans, feels it throughout his entire body, because of fucking course Harry finds him.  
  
"Holy shit, what happened? Are you okay?" he practically squeals in fear.  
  
Zayn opens his right eye, the one he can still see out of, and Harry's hazy face comes into view right above him. It's then that he realizes he's cold, that he's shivering.  
  
He doesn't speak right away, just looks up at Harry, because this is definitely new, this version of him. He has a beanie on his head, his hair out of his face. Black hoodie, black jeans. Zayn can barely see an inch of skin on him, and Harry looks down at him in horror, face scared, confused. There's no sexy smirk, no twinkle in his eye, no gum rolling around his mouth drawing attention to his lips.  
  
"I'm fine," Zayn says, voice raspy.  
  
"You are _not_ fine," Harry reaches for him.  
  
But Zayn finds a strength he didn't think he had, and shoves at Harry's hands, shoves him away. He slowly rolls to his side, groaning slightly, before pushing himself up to a seated position. He leans against the cracked concrete wall, the one with a tag on it near the street lamp. He has to lean over to spit the blood out of his mouth. He feels like his entire body is a bruise.  
  
Harry crouches down in front of him, eyes still concerned, a hand reaching for his face. He grasps Zayn's jaw and turns his head from side to side, assessing the damage.  
  
"What happened?"  
  
Harry lets his face go, but won't stop staring at him.  
  
"What does it look like," Zayn sniffs, wiping his sleeve across his lip, arms still aching, legs sticking out in front of him pathetically.  
  
"Should I call an ambulance? Do you need like, the hospital or something?"  
  
"No."  
  
"I can take you somewhere. Can I call someone?"  
  
Zayn looks at Harry's face, and it's like an entirely different person in front of him. They're not in a club, or in a private room. They're not touching, or whispering, or rubbing their dicks against each other, teasing. There's no game happening, no money being exchanged, no pills or powders. They're two people, outside in the real world, both clothed and confused.  
  
"I'm fine," Zayn repeats, finally moving to slap at his pockets.  
  
But Harry moves faster. He pulls Zayn's hands away and dives into his pocket for him, getting his wallet and phone, handing them over gingerly. Zayn was right, his phone is fucked. He also realizes, as he feels the weight in his jeans and hoodie, that he wasn't robbed, that he still has his stash. The guys clearly only wanted to send a message, that Zayn can't deal in the club anymore, that he's a fucking child compared to them.  
  
It worked. Message received.  
  
"Can I call someone?" Harry repeats, firmer, annoyed, as he looks at the useless brick of plastic in Zayn's hand, reaching into the brown bag over his shoulder.  
  
Zayn sighs, defeated.  
  
"Yeah. Call Jamie."

  
  
***

  
It's not until he's in Jamie's car, the one he bought off Craigslist with 95,000 miles on it, flying down the highway, that he speaks.  
  
"Thanks. For picking me up," he whispers, wiping at his busted lip again.  
  
"You know you can always call me," Jamie says, voice probably wetter than he'd like to admit.  
  
He won't look at Zayn, not after he screeched to the corner twenty minutes before and ran to his wrecked body against the concrete wall, shoving Harry out of the way, seeing him like this. He saw Zayn's swollen eye, his slumped body, and Zayn knew, Jamie almost lost it, almost cried right then and there.  
  
Zayn reaches for him, claps him on the arm, just once.  
  
"That guy was nice," Jamie sniffs, still only looking ahead. "Harry, right? He your friend? Your boyfriend?"  
  
"He's no one."

  
  
***

  
Zayn didn't want to go to Jamie's, didn't want to be on the other side of town. He wanted to be on his shitty mattress in his own apartment. So Jamie did as he asked and drove him home, helped him in the door, took off his boots for him. He wiped at the cuts on his face, got the painkillers from the bathroom even though Zayn knew he hated them. He made sure he had water.  
  
He even ran his hand through Zayn's hair, just once, just like June used to.  
  
When he left, as he shut the door, Zayn heard him mumble something, give him a serious look, like he was trying to tell him something important. But he couldn't make it out.  
  
Zayn can't fall asleep, won't be able to until the pills kick in and his body floats a few feet above the mattress, so he sighs and thinks about Harry.  
  
Harry sat with him against the wall, after Zayn recited one of the two phone numbers he knew by heart, after Harry talked to Jamie and said Zayn needed his help. They sat in silence, side by side, no touching, no whispering, nothing. Zayn watched Harry breathe, watched him look up at the sky, his eyes wide, hair out of his face.  
  
He looked younger and older at the same time, Zayn realized. He wasn't sure-of-himself Prince, the dancer with the smirk and the laugh Zayn's pretty sure could pull him out of a deep sleep. He looked young and unsure and open. He looked older and weathered and tired. He was so many things, Harry, and Zayn didn't know how to talk to him like this.  
  
So he didn't.  
  
Because he'd been fucking Harry for almost three weeks, in a disgusting room in a disgusting strip club downtown, both of them fucked up and soaring, and he didn't know how to talk to him. Harry's had Zayn's cock in his ass, has ridden Zayn just like the first time, almost every other day, since Zayn found him at this godforsaken club, and they had nothing to say. And Harry went off with a fat guy in cowboy boots, on a night Zayn wasn't supposed to be there, and Zayn wanted to throw up.  
  
Zayn stared at Harry for what felt like days.  
  
But once Jamie grabbed him around the torso and pulled him up to stand, pulled him against his chest, Zayn felt Harry's hand on his lower back. He felt the steadying hand as Jamie helped him to the car, felt it skin deep. He heard them speak, heard the quick _hey, I'm Harry,_ heard the _I'm Jamie, his brother, thanks for your help._ He saw Harry nod to him once, before turning and walking back to the parking lot.  
  
As Zayn begins to float, as the pain ebbs, he realizes Harry must have a car after all. He must drive to work, must live somewhere far enough to warrant a car. And then Zayn wonders what music Harry likes, wonders if his brown bag held his costumes, his crown, or if it held a computer, or maybe a few books. Maybe he goes to school. Maybe he takes classes or teaches classes or wants to take classes.  
  
He's thinking while he's high again, which is weird and out of character, but he can't stop, because then he pictures Harry's hair pushed off his forehead under a beanie and his black hoodie and how he looked amazing even with his entire body covered and how he sat against the wall with him when he didn't have to.  
  
And maybe even if he can't deal in the club anymore, he'll still go and watch Harry dance, because Harry dances so good, he's just so good, and Zayn really likes to watch and touch and play, so maybe he'll do that.  
  
Maybe.  
  
He drifts off soon after and sleeps for fourteen hours.

  
  
***

  
_"Hi Zayn, it's me. June. I just wanted to call… Jamie told me you got hurt. He said something happened, and you called him to come get you. He didn't say much, just that you might need to hear my voice, even if you won't say so. And maybe you don't, but here I am anyways. I hope you hear this message sooner rather than later. I just… I wish I could help you. I wish I could show you, or help you see, that we're still here, if you'll have us. We don't want you to go away, or leave us, or push us away. If you're looking for your family, we're right here, Zayn. We love you. And if you're not looking for us, if you're looking for something else… I hope you find it. I hope you find what you're looking for. Maybe… Maybe you'll find it soon. Maybe it's almost here, whatever it is. Maybe… maybe if you let someone in, they can help you find answers. You just have to let them in, okay? So… Call me. Just call me… when you can. It's important. I love you."_

  
  
***

  
Zayn waits four days, four long, agonizing days before going back to the strip club, back to Harry.  
  
Because above all else, he's a fucking idiot.  
  
It's that time of night when the club hits its stride, when the drag queens come in groups for a night of raunchiness, when old gays and their young, handsome partners wind their way in to have a night of fun with a few twinks, when the entire place collectively decides to get wild as fuck, to watch Harry and his friends dance naked over and over.  
  
Zayn told Dax about what happened, with his head hung like a child, and Dax almost smacked him for it, for being so stupid. He handed Zayn a new phone though, with his contacts and regulars stored in it, because he still relies on Zayn to push product. He told him to get his shit together, to find a new place or go back to what he did before and just deal wherever his regulars asked him to meet.  
  
So he did. He texted them all, one by one, to let them know the club was off limits.  
  
Tonight Zayn walks in and immediately zeros in on the back booth, the one opposite his own, and locks eyes with the man he's now sure deals from this club. The guy sees him staring, so Zayn very slowly and deliberately holds his hands up in surrender. He uses his face, his eyes, to send the message.  
  
 _I'm just here to watch. No deals. Nothing. Just here for the show. Swear._  
  
The guy only studies him for a few seconds, eyes in slits, before he nods. Zayn knows he's not exactly threatening, especially not with a still-black eye and a limp. He's just a kid, really, so he must catch a break. But for good measure, when he gets a drink at the bar, he tips double, sends the guy in the booth another look. _Giving money to the establishment, see? Just here for the show._  
  
He's in the clear then, he knows.  
  
And it is a show, that's for sure. Because Harry comes out ten minutes later to the main stage, the crowd double what it was the first time Zayn watched him, in a full cop's uniform, hat and everything. He's slower with it tonight, eyes big and bright, a smile on his face like he just won the Super Bowl.  
  
Zayn knows him well enough by now, knows his movements like the back of his hand, to know that Harry is completely loaded. He probably did a few lines right before walking on stage, because he's everywhere and all over. His body rolls and shifts, side to side, on his knees, bare ass out to the audience at the end, strange hands all over his body, and for the first time, Zayn hates it. Harry changed it up tonight, danced differently, moved his body like Zayn had never seen, and he fucking hates it.  
  
Normally Zayn could watch him dance all night, could smile at the random hands running up and down Harry's body, because normally Harry comes to him right after, jumps in his lap and licks at his neck, takes whatever drugs Zayn feeds him, before riding him in their shitty back room.  
  
That was before he saw the sixty year old cowboy tug at Harry's briefs, before Zayn knew Harry must fuck all his customers. And tonight as he watches Harry scrounge at the stage for his money, he wonders why he even came.  
  
He could leave, but he doesn't.  
  
They lock eyes as "Heartless" by Kanye plays, which would be ironic if Zayn were paying attention, Zayn in his booth, straw between his teeth, Harry walking near the main stage with his crown and blue briefs on. They lock eyes, and just like that first night when Zayn found him here, Harry's face splits into a grin, a wide one with dimples, as he stumbles to Zayn.  
  
Before Zayn knows it, Harry's in his lap like old times, thighs on either side of his, hands in his hair, grinning in his face.  
  
"Babe," he smiles, tugging at Zayn's ears.  
  
"Hey."  
  
"You're here. I'm so glad," Harry purrs.  
  
If Zayn didn't have the black eye and bruised ribs to prove it, he'd probably seriously consider the fact that he dreamt the entire beating, the way Harry sat with him, open, without this act, this face with dimples, this fucked up role he plays for his job.  
  
Zayn stares at him, eyes serious. Because he doesn't think about much, and he doesn't care about people, and he definitely never thought he'd be angry at a stripper for not wanting him beyond his wallet or his pills, but here he is. He's fucked.  
  
Harry looks back at him, still smiling. It must be fake though, Zayn knows, because even if Harry's genuinely happy to see him, he's probably happy to feel the bag of coke in his hoodie pocket more.  
  
And just when he's about to shove Harry off him, right when he's about to leave for good, go swallow a whole bottle of pills if he can pluck up the courage, Harry slowly brings his hand up.  
  
Harry's smile falls slightly, as his eyes roam Zayn's face, as he takes in the bruises, black and blue and yellow in spots, under his eyes, near his nose. He runs his fingers, so lightly, over Zayn's closed left eye, soft and sweet, feeling.  
  
"You okay?" he whispers.  
  
Zayn feels like his stomach drops out of his body entirely, like the air sucks out of his lungs. He forces himself to exhale, to breathe. Because maybe Harry fucks him because it's his job, and maybe he fucks other people. But he also wears what Zayn wants him to wear, and he turns so Zayn can see him from the back, his favorite angle. He sat with him against that wall. He called Jamie. Outside of this club, away from this act, he's a real, tangible person with a brown bag full of stuff that Zayn wants to open up and dig around in.  
  
"I'm good," he whispers, with a nod. "So long as I don't sell here again, I'll be good. Soon enough. "  
  
"I'm glad," Harry nods with a sigh, a breathy sigh Zayn commits to memory, as he leans in and buries his face in Zayn's neck.  
  
They sit like that for a few minutes, as if the lights aren't changing around them, as if the music isn't some shitty 80s remix, as if there isn't a dude getting a blow job three feet away from the naked dancer who just jumped off a pole. They hold on, Harry's face never leaving his neck.  
  
And then because Harry's still Harry, this Harry, in this place, he speaks into Zayn's skin.  
  
"Can I make you feel better?"  
  
Zayn runs his hand through the back of Harry's hair, tugging slightly.  
  
"How?"  
  
"However you want me," Harry sits up, to look at him again.  
  
Zayn wants Harry in every form, in every meaning of the word, he realizes then. He wants Harry. But he would never say so because he never has before, and he doesn't know how. So he just shrugs, does that thing with his eyebrows, the thing he does when he's confused and needs help.  
  
Harry just nods.  
  
So he grabs Zayn's hand and leads him to the back, to the private rooms, with stained couches and floors that smell like spilled whiskey, takes him right to their room. He shoves Zayn down onto the couch and shuts the door with a sharp snap.

  
  
***

  
Zayn has a feeling, if it were anyone other than Harry, if it weren't exactly like this, in their room, with Harry wearing the blue briefs, it would be fucking ridiculous.  
  
After he slips a pill to Harry with his tongue, after he swallows his own, after their lips break apart and Harry steps back, that's the first thought Zayn has.  
  
Harry looks down at him on the couch, grabbing the pole next to him with his right hand, as Ginuwine's voice comes through the speakers, loud. He pinches at his bottom lip with his left hand, face serious, and he slowly circles the pole, just a few little steps, getting his head ready. Zayn puts his arms on either side of the back of the couch, already anticipating this, already licking his lips. Because if Harry wants to make him feel good, make him forget and drown out his thoughts, for good, if he wants to dance for him, for the first time by themselves, he's going to experience it just like this, open.  
  
Harry goes slow at first, feeling the rhythm, back to Zayn because he knows Zayn likes it that way, his body rolling, curving, gripping the pole in his hands. He dips down, over and over, bounces, let's Zayn see his little ass move, the briefs riding down now. If Zayn leaned forward, if he tugged at them even a little, they'd come right down over the curve of his ass.  
  
But he doesn't. This is Harry's pace.  
  
When he turns around to face Zayn again, holding the pole in his hands above and behind his head, hips moving, he's gone. His eyes are blown wide, black, and Zayn sees the tremor in his face. He's rolling now, he needs to touch, needs to settle his skin, the skin Zayn knows is mirroring his own, tingling and hot like a live wire, sparking.  
  
So Zayn slowly holds up his finger. _Come here. Now._  
  
Harry slinks his way over, stands in between Zayn's wide open legs and stares at him.  
  
Zayn nods, just once. _Go on._  
  
Harry turns around again, ass right in Zayn's face now, and moves again, slow. He knows Zayn likes when he grips his hair, so he does, brings his hands up and pulls at the sides of his long curly hair, ass bouncing in Zayn's face to the beat. Zayn thinks it again, if he leaned forward just a little, the briefs would be gone in a second. Harry must read his mind, must know he wants him soon, so he turns around and crawls into his lap.  
  
It's better than Zayn ever even imagined, Harry in his lap like always, but moving, rolling, grinding, a delicious friction through his jeans. Harry holds Zayn by the back of the head now, grabs his hair, and rides him.  
  
Zayn can't keep his hands to himself anymore, not as the song shifts to their song, the first song Zayn ever saw Harry dance to. Maybe Harry recognizes it too, because his breath hitches for half a second, gripping Zayn tighter by the neck. Zayn holds his hips, Pretty Ricky practically telling Harry what to do. Zayn tightens his grip, _grind on me, keep going,_ so Harry does. He presses against Zayn harder, hips rolling, huffing into his ear like they're fucking. It's fucking addicting. And if this is how Harry dances on every guy, he must drive a BMW, must have a fat fucking wallet like Zayn, must have all the boys at his feet.  
  
"I go on again soon," Harry whines into his ear, Zayn groaning.  
  
"Not yet," Zayn huffs, cock throbbing as Harry reaches down to grip him through his jeans.  
  
"Wanna blow you. Swallow you down before I go out there, for all those people."  
  
"You ever blow them? You fuck them?" Zayn can't help but ask, even in the middle of his dance, even when his thoughts are supposed to be silenced, erased.  
  
Harry leans back, eyes still black, skin tingly. He does it right before he slides off Zayn's lap, to his knees, between his legs, fingers on his knees. He kisses Zayn's closed left eye, once, and Zayn's fucking gone. With Harry between his legs, they both feel rushed now, Harry must need it too, because in no time at all, Zayn's jeans and briefs are around his ankles and Harry has a hand on him.  
  
He closes his eyes, works Zayn with his hand.  
  
"Just because a guy's a customer, doesn't mean I'll fuck him. And I won't fuck anyone unless I can _feel_ it," Harry says on an exhale.  
  
It sounds like a mantra to Zayn, like it should be etched somewhere, like it's the most important thing he'll ever hear.  
  
And maybe it is.  
  
Harry sucks him down soon after, lips slipping over the head of Zayn's cock as the song rolls on, as they roll together, stretching around him. It's fucking addicting. Zayn shoves his head up and down on himself, sets the pace, fast and then slow, and then fast again. Harry gags with it, gags on him and the sounds shouldn't be as gorgeous as they are, but Zayn chases it. He chases the feeling of Harry's tongue on the underside of him, up and down.  
  
"Fuck, Harry. You're so good," he groans. "Fuck."  
  
Harry looks up at him through his eyelashes, wet with moisture, fingers on his knees, and he's asking for something.  
  
It clicks, eventually.  
  
"You like it?" Zayn whispers, pulling his hair, hard. "You like my cock in your mouth? Like when I make you choke?"  
  
Harry fucking whines then, whines around him, and Zayn's eyes almost bulge out of his fucking skull, it's so good.  
  
"You're mine," he huffs, both hands on his head now, pushing him down, harder, faster. "Take it all."  
  
It's like they don't know what's happening, how they got here, because Zayn can't stop. He bucks up into Harry's mouth, pulling Harry onto him, and Harry chokes, gags, spit on his chin, nails digging into Zayn's thighs.  
  
Zayn's orgasm hits him like a fucking semi truck, his entire body tenses, nerve endings on fire as he shoots into Harry's mouth, with one long, low grunt.  
  
Harry quickly sits back, let's Zayn slip out of his mouth, and Zayn thinks he's about to die from it, from the force of it. His lungs hurt like he's run a mile, his ribs ache, but he keeps his hand in Harry's hair as he tries to focus his eyes.  
  
When he realizes Harry's staring at him with big eyes, he stares back.  
  
Harry slowly opens his mouth, wide, his pink tongue out, like he's presenting show-and-tell at school. Zayn's come sits there, pooling in the center of his tongue, threatening to spill out, and all Harry can do is stare at him, waiting.  
  
"Swallow," Zayn commands, hand coming up under Harry's chin to shut his jaw for him. "All of it."  
  
Harry's eyes roll back as he does as he's told, swallows it down, licks his lips, eyes closed. He smiles.  
  
Zayn wants to fucking ruin Harry, wants to fuck him so badly, he almost screams it out. But Harry has a dance to do, and Harry has to go be with strangers. It shouldn't make him mad, especially after Harry told him he won't fuck just anyone. He only fucks when he can feel it, so he must feel something too, whatever this is. Zayn wants this, wants Harry, even if he has to offer Harry a pill beforehand, even if Harry has to be soaring.  
  
Harry reaches down to his erection then, almost slips his hand into his briefs, already wet at the tip, leaking through the fabric, to finish, to ease himself. But Zayn pulls at his hair.  
  
"No."  
  
Harry's eyes snap open to look at him, bewildered.  
  
"You have a dance to do," Zayn huffs. "I want you on stage with your cock fucking begging for it, for me. And when they touch you, you think of me."  
  
Harry nods, hair flying, licks his lips.  
  
And that's exactly what Harry does. He walks out onto that stage in the blue briefs, wet, aching, eyes wild, cheeks flushed. He dances for strangers, gets naked, bounces on the stage on his knees, hands in his hair, face screwed up. And every hand that reaches up out of the crowd, as each finger runs along his thighs, Zayn sees him shiver, ready to burst.  
  
Zayn sits at the bar, away from the lights, under a shadow, and takes a small bump from his pinky, as he watches.  
  
He hears one of the bartenders say it's the best dance he's seen from Harry, that he "must be in heat or something, Jesus Christ."  
  
Harry looks fucked out, and out of control, and when he locks eyes with Zayn towards the end, Zayn just bites his lip and nods. _Good boy._

  
  
***

  
_"Hey. It's me. Can you call me when you hear this? I feel like… I feel like we need to talk. About a few things. About some stuff. I need to tell you… I just need to talk to you. June said she left you a message, but you didn't call her back. I really think you should, call one of us, I mean. We… we need to talk to you. Please? Just… please."_

  
  
***

  
Zayn ignores his phone, ignores Jamie's message sitting there next to June's message, also ignored.  
  
Because he's an asshole. Because he knows if he hears June's voice, or Jamie's voice, or any voice besides Harry's at the moment, he'll have to sit down. And he doesn't want to sit down, he wants to move, or run, or go some place else.  
  
He doesn't want to go home, or go to June's, or take the bus anywhere, with headphones in, drowning his thoughts by himself. He wants to drown them with Harry.  
  
So he waits outside the club for an hour and a half, smokes his way through half his cigarettes, against the side of the brick building, waiting. He could've waited inside, but he didn't want to see anyone touching Harry. The dance was enough.  
  
He also wonders if he should pay for it.  
  
The side door opens a few times, as dancers leave in groups, a few leaving alone, a few walking out with men who are clearly paying customers. They taper off after a while, the music from inside finally quieting, the parking lot emptying. Zayn wonders if Harry left out the front, maybe he left an hour ago, maybe he left with a guy or maybe he stays at the club late. Maybe he's freaked out, thinking Zayn's waiting for him outside, creepy, alone, standing against the building like a fucking idiot. Maybe he's inside on the phone, talking to his friends or his family, maybe he has a whole other life outside of this place and he needs a minute.  
  
Maybe maybe maybe.  
  
Zayn's still fucked up, he realizes, as he flicks his lighter over and over, hand shaking. He got a lap dancer earlier, shoved Harry's face onto his cock, told him how to dance for him. He was the boss, and it was exhilarating, and he wants Harry so badly, all the time, he wants and wants, but now he feels like he's a kid again, a teenager, waiting outside school, unsure if the cute guy likes him. He doesn't feel like a force, like he's in charge of anything, like Harry's his. He feels like a fucking idiot.  
  
Just then the door opens again, creaks heavily, and out walks Harry, in the same outfit he was in when he found Zayn just over on the corner. Black hoodie, black jeans, beanie, bag over his shoulder. His hair's slightly damp, he must've taken a shower. But he doesn't see Zayn against the wall, as he shifts his keys in his hand, as he heads to the parking lot.  
  
"Hey," Zayn calls, stepping towards him.  
  
Harry startles, turns, sees him, and just stares.  
  
"Thought you left," he says, emotionless, with a slight shrug.  
  
"No, I just… came outside," Zayn shrugs back, nervous now.  
  
Harry stares at him.  
  
"Do you… do you want to go somewhere? Wherever?"  
  
Harry stares at him.  
  
"I don't want to go back to my apartment, and I feel antsy tonight. I need. I just like… need something," Zayn says, all at once, words fumbling into one big word again.  
  
Harry nods.  
  
"You wanna fly?" Zayn says, voice brusque, and deep, and needy as hell, stepping close to Harry now, in his space.  
  
Harry nods.  
  
Zayn feels Harry's breath on his face, as they stand close, body heat mixing. And it's fucking addicting.

  
  
***

  
Harry drives an old school, classic white Mercedes Benz, a car only effortlessly cool people can drive, Zayn thinks, as they fly down the highway. Harry drives fast, too fast, but Zayn has a feeling he's still soaring somewhat, maybe manic or anxious, the way his fingers tighten around the wheel.  
  
Zayn keeps his arm out the window as the night air breezes through his hair, as an 80s rock station plays softly beneath the sound of the wind.  
  
They only touch briefly, after they round an especially sharp turn once they get to the Silverlake neighborhood, when Harry throws his arm out like a goddamn soccer mom, hand slapping against Zayn's chest, pretty painfully, actually.  
  
Zayn feels it in his core, in his bones, in the center of his being, Harry's hand.  
  
So once they're around the corner, once the threat of danger passes, Zayn brings his hands in and holds Harry's against his chest for a few seconds.  
  
Zayn sees Harry smile, as he looks straight ahead.

  
  
***

  
"Hope you don't mind a mess," Harry mumbles, coming down from his high, as they climb the stairs of a quaint duplex, up on a hill, overlooking the hipster bar scene below.  
  
Zayn never understood wanting to live in Silverlake, around the too-expensive vegan places, near the reservoir with people who thought they were better than their expensive shitty apartments suggest. It was like too many people cramped into a space, too many hills, and Zayn lives downtown, so that's saying something.  
  
"Whatever," he shrugs, following behind Harry through the front door.  
  
If Zayn's place holds only a bed and a few pieces of furniture, a few boxes of useless crap he collected over the years at June's, by comparison, Harry lives in a mansion, full to the brim with shit.  
  
Zayn lets out a low whistle as he looks around the decent-sized studio apartment, full of furniture and boxes and shelves upon shelves of stuff. It's like a hoarder's paradise, actually. The white walls are bare, not that it matters, because most of them are covered by piles upon piles of cardboard boxes and stacks of books. Magazines, a massive record collection, clothes, CDs, more lamps than a person needs, a pink armchair, a set of golf clubs, a jewelry box. There's enough room to walk around, to get to the kitchen, bathroom, and what looks to be a closet, but every surface, every other inch of space, is inhabited by _stuff._  
  
But like Zayn's place, there are no pictures, no frames holding happy, smiling faces anywhere. There isn't artwork, anything with color, anything adding a touch of home, or comfort. It's just a room filled to the brim with possessions.  
  
"You have a lot of shit," Zayn says, turning to Harry, chuckling lightly.  
  
"Yeah," Harry nods, shifting uncomfortably, throwing his bag onto another arm chair, this one made of black leather.  
  
There's a weird energy to them here, now, away from the club, them simply being Zayn and Harry, normal, sober people. Zayn doesn't know what to do with it, with the space they inhabit, so he shifts his weight, rubs at his neck. Just a few hours ago, he told Harry "you're mine," before Harry swallowed his load like a champ, and now they're in a cramped apartment, looking at their boots.  
  
"What do you wanna do?" Harry questions him, eyes big, like he needs Zayn to tell him.  
  
"Where do you wanna go?" Zayn slides closer to Harry, hand already in his pockets, grabbing for his stash.  
  
"I can contribute," Harry nods, turning to grab an old antique music box from the table.  
  
He opens it and it's filled with pill bottles, Vicodin and Percocet and Oxy, baggies of coke, mushrooms, unlabeled pills, a few joints.  
  
Zayn chuckles again, because he didn't realize that Harry didn't _need_ Zayn's drugs at the club, he just must enjoy it like Zayn does, getting it wherever he can. Maybe he enjoys flying with Zayn more than Zayn realized. He feels like his heart aches in his chest a little, which is another feeling he doesn't know what to do with.  
  
Zayn grabs for a joint and swiftly brings it to his lips, reaching for his lighter to light it. They settle on Harry's bed, kicking off their boots, the music box between them, as the smoke fills the room.  
  
It's like now that they have a purpose, something tangible to grasp and do and smoke together, it's easier. The tension between them dissipates, and soon they're hazy, their limbs heavy, eyelids drooping.  
  
"Where are you from?" Zayn sucks at the joint, speaking while holding his breath.  
  
Harry takes it from him to take a hit.  
  
"Here."  
  
"Me too."  
  
"What's your last name?"  
  
"Styles. What's yours?"  
  
"Malik," Zayn nods, reaching in the box, shifting the contents, taking a look.  
  
"Zayn Malik," Harry says, slowly, mouth working the syllables around like it's thick honey. "I like that. Zayn. Zayn Malik."  
  
Zayn smiles to himself, grabbing for the coke. Harry shifts the contents in the box himself now, reaching for the small mirror, the cut straw, the old credit card from the bottom and hands them to Zayn, eyes sending a silent thank you for cutting the lines for them.  
  
Zayn kisses Harry's cheek then, and he doesn't know why.  
  
Once they're each three lines deep, once their spines are cold as ice and they're drifting away, like two little boats accidentally left untethered to a dock, they laugh about the fact that Harry called them little boats, like people could ever be boats, _honestly._  
  
And then Harry stands up on the mattress and shows Zayn how if he jumps high enough, he can touch the ceiling, and Zayn should try, because the sensation of jumping up and down while high is just _so sick, you'll see, come on._ So Zayn does, and they jump like they're on a trampoline. Harry had a trampoline when he was a kid, it was so fun, he always went so high, and sometimes his sister Gemma would double-bounce him, and that was always really fun too, because it felt like he was going to fly off the thing, and his mom used to yell at them for it, and Robin his step dad laughed at Anne, because she worried about the dumbest things, and Harry gets that from her, his worrying nature, and their backyard was really big, almost like a park, and Harry didn't actually even go to a real park for years, because he never needed to, his yard was so big.  
  
Zayn listens to every word Harry says, even the out-of-breath ones, when he jumps so high, so forcefully on his bed, that Zayn can barely keep up. But he does and he stares at Harry because Harry just emits this lightness, this weird breath of fresh air that Zayn never knew could exist in another person.  
  
When they stop jumping, when one of Harry's neighbors yells through the walls to chill the fuck out, they crumple up in a heap on the bed, laughing hysterically, Zayn's ribs aching a little. They take a few pills for good measure, and talk about colors and shapes for a while.  
  
"I really like it here," Zayn eventually whispers, once he gets his breath settled, for the second time in his life admitting he wants to be where he is.  
  
"I like you here," Harry smiles, before leaning over to bury his face in Zayn's neck.  
  
When they fuck that night, when they do what they've been doing for a few weeks, it's different. Better. Because they're not in the club, there aren't strangers in rooms next to them, strangers getting off because they can't connect with anyone else, when Zayn and Harry are lucky to connect together, for real.  
  
Zayn slips into Harry slowly, Harry on his stomach, cheek against the sheets, eyes blown wide. And when Zayn fucks into him, lube dripping down them both, when he holds Harry's ass in both hands, gripping, hard, Harry groans. He brings his hand back, to grab at Zayn's wrist, and Zayn knows. He gets the message. He can read Harry like a book, it seems.  
  
So he spanks him. Hard. Slap after slap, to Harry's right cheek, then to his left, as his head spins, and he's dizzy and manic and he feels like one of those cartoons where the guy crashes head first into a wall and sees exclamation points and question marks circling his head. He says it out loud, asks Harry if he can see them in the air too, and Harry says yes, but it's probably just to be polite, because Harry seems polite.  
  
Zayn spanks Harry until his ass is red and hot to the touch, until Harry comes onto the sheets and clenches around him. Zayn pulls out, throws the condom to the floor and comes across Harry's back, fingers holding on for dear life.  
  
Before they fall asleep, before both of their bodies give up and give out, before they collapse, Harry reaches for him, grabs Zayn's face in his hands and stares into his eyes like he's staring into his soul. And then he kisses Zayn, hard, like he's trying to say something, and Zayn wants to eat it up, wants it for breakfast for the rest of his life, as he breathes into Harry's mouth.  
  
"I'm glad you found me."  
  
That's the last thing that's said out loud that night. Zayn's not sure if he said it to Harry, or if Harry said it to him, and he doesn't care. Because either way, it doesn't really matter.  
  
They go to sleep curled together.

  
  
***

  
_"It's me again. I really need you to call me. Today. Zayn, please. Call me back. June's worried. I went to your place but you weren't there, and I need to find you. I have to tell you something."_

  
  
***

  
Zayn wakes up first, which surprises him slightly.  
  
He rolls over and winces, his body sore from the trampoline and the fucking. He's dehydrated, his stomach and brain begging him for water. But he remembers he's in Harry's bed, and everything can wait, really.  
  
Harry looks angelic next to him, curled in a ball, face scrunched into a pillow, the sunlight streaming in, hitting him just right. It must be late in the afternoon, Zayn realizes as he scratches at his head.  
  
First Zayn finds the bathroom to take a piss, before venturing through Harry's clutter to get a glass of water. He sucks down two of them in a row, gasping lightly, as the water splashes down his bare chest and onto his black briefs. He sets a glass next to the bed, for when Harry wakes up, before walking around, looking.  
  
He remembers how he wanted to look in Harry's bag, to see who Harry was, and he smiles to himself now, proud of himself, for being with someone like this, at their place, looking, opening up something inside himself he didn't know was even possible. He rubs at his red lips and smiles.  
  
He realizes the white double doors across from him, the doors he figured hid a closet, are ajar, creaking slightly from the wind coming in through the open window. He steps over and around a few magazines, a shoe, a pair of jeans, and nudges them open a little, curious.  
  
They swing all the way open. As quickly as Zayn laughs at the mess of even more shit in the closet, his breath then catches in his throat a little, at the collage on either side of both doors.  
  
The inside of the doors are covered with photos, taped up, taped together, tacked into the wood. From ceiling to floor, the white doors are full of smiling faces, a middle aged woman with black hair and white teeth; a round man with glasses, rosy cheeks, a booming laugh; and a young girl, a few years older than Harry, with blonde white hair, her fingers up in peace signs in half of them. Zayn remembers Harry babbling, for hours, about his family the night before, and Zayn's sure this is them.

Harry stares at Zayn from a bunch of them, Harry as a kid, as a teenager with red blemishes across his forehead. They're all hugging, laughing. They're at Disneyland, in New York, Paris, surfing, golfing, lounging in a hammock.  
  
Zayn can't look away, at the evidence of a family, of people who love and care for each other, smiling at him, smiling at each other. It's like Zayn opened the doors to a time capsule full of memories he's only seen recreated in movies, in the photo books of fleeting friends he had in high school. Even the photos of him and Jamie in June's house aren't like this, this joyous, this happy.  
  
 _"What are you doing?"_ Harry hisses behind him.  
  
Zayn swiftly turns to see Harry stumbling forward in nothing but his underwear, out of the bed, tangled in the sheets, face puffy from sleep.  
  
"The doors, they opened, and… I just. I didn't mean to."  
  
"Who the fuck does that, gets into people's _shit_ like that? _Fuck_ ," Harry bellows, pushing past him, grabbing the doors and slamming them.  
  
Zayn's entire body jumps from the sound, from the _boom_ that echoes around them.  
  
Harry stands against the doors now, staring at Zayn, fucking livid.  
  
"I'm sorry," Zayn says, face shifting, eyebrows nervous.  
  
"You should go."  
  
"Okay," Zayn nods, sniffs once, turning and grabbing for his shit.  
  
He's in his clothes and out the door in no time at all, which he's proud of himself for, extricating himself from that apartment, from Harry, from the anger seeping from Harry's pores like beads of sweat.  
  
Zayn runs down the stairs quickly, makes his way to the street, slapping at his pockets.  
  
When he's on the bus later, heading downtown, he flicks his lighter that looks like a tube of lipstick, over and over, and he keeps his eyes closed.

  
  
***

  
Zayn Malik should really listen to his messages, is the thing. He should really get back to people. He should let them in.  
  
It's something he's terrible at, something he tries to ignore, the red alerts on his phone, constantly reminding him that two certain people want him to answer, want him to listen to them. They reach for him, they try to get to him, to tell him things, to tell him _important_ things, to explain shit, but he ignores them.  
  
He should listen to his messages.  
  
That evening, only a few hours after he got back to his apartment, after he's drunk and high on Oxy and rolling a joint and sweating and wondering if he can get away with not calling Dax for a few days, there's a knock on his door.  
  
Normally he wouldn't answer. Normally he'd yell through the door for whoever it is to fuck off, sure it's an annoying neighbor, because if it were June or Jamie, they'd yell to him first, to let them in.  
  
So he's not even sure why he answers it. It can't be Harry, because Harry doesn't know where he lives, and because Harry has a closet of photos that seem to be a secret, a room full of shit, of stuff, and Zayn's not sure why.  
  
He walks slowly, really fucking slowly, because his body doesn't know how to move on its own on nights like this, and pulls the door open even slower.  
  
Zayn's eyes travel from the floor up, slowly. He sees her shoes first, scuffed shoes from Walmart most likely, grey jeans, a grey sweater, rough hands grasping a worn out purse, rings on her fingers, all the way up to her shoulders, to the brown hair framing her face.  
  
He sees his eyes in her eyes, the slight tilt to the outer corners. He sees his eyelashes, long and feminine, the eyelashes Jamie used to make fun of him for. He sees the crease in her forehead, the one he has when he's anxious, the shape of her ears.  
  
And as Zayn looks at his mother for the very first time, he wishes he could close his eyes instead.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

The first time June let them take the train to the beach on their own, Zayn almost pissed his pants.  
  
That's not an exaggeration either, it truly almost happened, as he sat next to Jamie on an uncomfortable plastic seat, flying underground towards Redondo Beach.  
  
Zayn had never been on the train before, and they had only gone to the beach by bus, or in the car, always with June. He'd never been underground like that, around the massive trains, not in his entire thirteen years on the planet. He'd never had to worry about having a Metrocard on him, loading his spare change onto it, hopping trains, remembering the colors that went with each, just the two of them.  
  
June had to tell them at least eighteen times: _be careful, don't talk to strangers, take the gold line, to the red line, to the blue line, to the green line, take it all the way to the beach, be home before dark._ Zayn repeated it, over and over, even wrote the colors on his palm with a pen so they wouldn't forget.  
  
Jamie was fine, as always, navigating their way through the tunnels, hopping train to train, making their way west. He looked at the maps overhead, looked at the squiggly lines, and constantly leaned over to tell Zayn when they'd be there. _Four more stops on this line, that's it. Then we get on the green line and we're almost there, don't worry._  
  
But Zayn almost wet himself, because he got nervous easily in those days, unsure of himself when not in June's presence. So every once and a while, he reached out and touched Jamie's arm, gripped it in his hand for a few seconds to settle himself.  
  
He learned that day, that with Jamie by his side, he could conquer anything. Because Jamie let him hold his arm, squeezed his hand in reassurance, and ran up the escalator ahead of Zayn, to beat him up it, to yell back at him to hurry so they could get to the beach as soon as possible. _We get the whole day just us, Zayn, let's go!_ So Zayn scurried up it as fast as he could, sun smacking him the face as he exited the station, sea air blowing through his hair. He felt like a grown up, like he could do anything, if Jamie showed him how, if he just wrote the colors on his palm.  
  
They ran along the beach for hours that day, ate fish tacos at a stand near the bars, got to pet the dog of a really pretty girl who said they could. And when they hopped back on the train to head back to June's, to head home, Zayn's eyes closing without permission he was so exhausted, Jamie promised they'd do it all the time, go to the beach together, tear up the town now that they knew how. And they did. They did it until they were eighteen and Zayn moved on, to grow up without Jamie's help, without his arm.  
  
But the first time, that first day, was always the best.  
  
It was one of Zayn's very best days.  
  
Zayn remembers that day as he sits on the beach and watches the sun rise. He remembers almost pissing himself at the thought of doing something just the two of them, without June, without her there walking behind him in case he needed to turn around to see her, to make sure she was still there. He remembered holding Jamie's arm when he got nervous, when he needed a solid, warm body underneath his hand to feel safe.  
  
It was like from the day he got dumped on June's doorstep, he was reaching for her, reaching for Jamie, needing them to catch him because no one ever had before.  
  
So it's ironic that now, as he digs his toes in the sand and listens to the waves crashing against the coast, he's decided to never speak to either of them again.

  
  
***

  
They stared at each other for a long time.  
  
Thinking back on it now, a few hours later as he sits on the beach alone, Zayn wonders how ridiculous they probably looked, standing on either side of his front door, staring at each other, eyes roaming, traveling across faces and bodies and movements.  
  
Zayn watched her look at him, watched her watch him. It was with a strange fascination, he could tell, this woman staring at a person who came from her, was half her DNA, but was a stranger. He watched her take in his eyes, his sharp cheek bones, the shape of his hand as it rested on the door frame.  
  
He saw so many little things of himself in her, like his stance, the way she sucked her lips in her mouth as she took a minute to collect herself, just like he did. She even had his teeth, sharp incisors, the same slope to their mouths.  
  
Zayn hasn't thought about her, the real her, the real, tangible person _her_ , in so many years, he didn't know what to do. He never thought about the woman who gave birth to him in the sense that she was real, he just thought of his "family," or where he "came from." A real person knocked on his door, holding a purse in her hands tightly, and he had no idea how to react.  
  
She spoke first, and it was the most beautiful and wretched sound he'd ever heard.  
  
"Hi Zayn," she spoke sweetly, quietly, her eyebrows shifting upwards.  
  
He stared at her, his breath catching in his throat.  
  
"I'm Trisha."  
  
She held out her hand.  
  
Zayn felt like his eyeballs hurt, he kept blinking, too fast, too many times within a minute. So in a daze, he reached out and grasped her hand in his, her tiny, delicate hand. And when their skin touched, warm skin to warm skin, he very nearly fell to his knees.  
  
Because the first time his mother touched him, it was a hand in his hand, and she was real, and here, and warm, and spoke with a sweet, soft voice, and it was like his entire world collapsed around him. Because he would never again know what it would be like to not have a mother, to not have the person from whom he came be real. He had a mother then, a real person to look at.  
  
"I'm Zayn."  
  
It was a stupid thing to say, he knew it the second he said it. Of course he was Zayn. She came to find him, she must know.  
  
As Zayn grips the sand in his hands now, as the sun fully breaks through the horizon on the beach, he almost smacks himself across the face, for being so stupid, for believing she wanted to find him. He can't believe he let himself be such an idiot, to believe something so fucking ridiculous.  
  
Because the next thing she said really did bring him to his knees, five minutes later of course, because he'd never let her see that.  
  
"A woman named June, uh… she and her son, they said they'd been looking for me. They thought I should introduce myself to you. To see if… to see if you had any questions. If you needed a few answers, or something. I could do that," she nodded, bringing her band back to her chest, to grab at her purse again.  
  
He stared at her.  
  
"Maybe we could… maybe we could go get coffee? I don't have long, I have to get home. But… but we could have coffee and talk. If you want."  
  
Zayn felt his ribcage collapse slightly, under the weight of it all. He felt his sternum crack into a few pieces, his lungs shrivel, his back hunch. He physically felt the blow of her words, felt it to his core.  
  
Zayn Malik came into this world alone, and no random woman at his door was ever going to change that.  
  
So he stared at her, at the woman in front of him, the one with his eyes and his ears and his sharp teeth, and he shook his head, willing himself not to cry, praying he wouldn't. She didn't come here for him, she came here because June and Jamie begged her to, requested that she show up to let Zayn see her. They wanted to shove her in his face, let him see where he came from.  
  
She wasn't here for him, to take him home, or hug him, or kiss his forehead. She was here because June asked her to, sweet, loving June, probably cried over the phone and begged her to meet him, just once.  
  
"I'm good. I'm all good," he mumbled, head shaking, back and forth.  
  
 _Please leave, please don't make me talk anymore, I don't want to talk, I don't want you here._  
  
He kept repeating it in his head, as she stared back at him. They kept staring, like they couldn't stop, until Trisha finally nodded, and turned away, walked down the hall, walked away from Zayn just like she did in January 1993.  
  
Zayn didn't fall down until the door was closed and he was alone, didn't fall down and cry until the door was latched shut, because he'd never let her see.

  
  
***

  
Zayn let himself cry for five whole minutes before he tore through his apartment, shoving shit to the floor, throwing anything he could get in his hands. He didn't have many possessions, not even half of what Harry Styles had, but he had enough to make a mess of it. He threw shit over and over, at the walls, even at the ceiling. Shoes, a few books, even the box he kept his pipe in. He heard the glass shatter when it hit the window frame.  
  
But it wasn't enough, so Zayn grabbed his keys, slapped at his pockets and flew out the door.  
  
It was like they were expecting him, June and Jamie, sitting on the couch in the little living room Zayn knew so well, the living room with exactly three pictures of him, hanging on the walls. One from a Dodgers game, one from Christmas a few years ago, one of him and Jamie sitting on the front stairs, sun in their eyes, squinting at June as she took a photo for a "nice memory."  
  
They must've known he'd make his way to them, eventually, that evening, after sending Trisha to his fucking door like it was no big deal.  
  
Zayn barged through the door like a bull in a China shop, shoving at it so hard, the doorknob blew a hole in the drywall behind it, chipped yellow paint peeling off it already.  
  
"How fucking _dare_ you," he bellowed, stomping around the couch to stand in front of them.  
  
June was already crying. Jamie had his hand over his mouth.  
  
"What the fuck, J?" Zayn threw his arms out, already crying again, hot tears in his eyes, looking from one to the other. "What the fuck?  
  
Zayn shrugged his shoulders and stared, the anger slowly turning to grief.  
  
"Zayn, I tried to explain. I wanted to tell you first, to talk to you about it, before she came. But you wouldn't talk to us, you just wouldn't," Jamie sniffs, looking up at him. "We've been trying to find your family for over a year now. And we found her, Z."  
  
"Why? Why did you find her? Why was she here?"  
  
"You wouldn't let us help you, Zayn. You wouldn't let us be here anymore. You don't want us, and you need a family, you need someone to take care of you," June chimes in, tears running down her face. "I thought if you saw where you came from, maybe she could answer your questions, and you'd find peace, or maybe you could have a relationship with her now."  
  
"Who the fuck are you kidding, June? She got _rid_ of me. She left me at a fucking hospital, next to a pile of trash. You found the person who left me, with nothing but a name and a birthday. She didn't even leave a fucking _note_ , June. _Nothing._ She left me like I was nothing, with nothing, alone. And you found her, to 'answer questions?'"  
  
He's screaming again, voice higher than he meant it to go, as he squeezes his hands into fists.  
  
Jamie's head snaps up then, looks him in the eye.  
  
"She wanted to find you, she said so. She wanted to meet you."  
  
"No, she didn't. She felt sorry for me, because two fucking assholes called her up and forced her to come here."  
  
June wipes at her face, still crying, as Jamie stands up to face him.  
  
"You don't get to speak to her like that," Jamie huffs, pointing to June's red face on the couch. "We tried to fucking help you, Zayn. We've been here since you were eleven fucking years old. We've taken care of you. We are your family. But for some reason, you've convinced yourself we're not, that this isn't real. So we tried to find answers for you, to let you meet your mom, see it, feel it. And if you found her and left us for good, for your 'real' family, then fine. We'd be fucking sick over it, but at least you'd be happy."  
  
Zayn stares at him, breath catching in his throat, again.  
  
"But if it didn't work, if she wasn't what you needed to find, at least you'd know. And you could always come home. Because we're here. So don't you fucking act like this was shitty of us to do, because it's not. We just wanted to help you."  
  
The room feels they're under water, like everything's moving too slow, like the space around them is pushing back as they move forward.  
  
Zayn's head hurts, and he shakes it back and forth, his brain rattles even more, and he wants it to be quiet, and he wants to leave.  
  
"I don't want to be here anymore," he whispers, hands coming to his ears. "I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here."  
  
Zayn walks out the front door, determined not to look back, even as Jamie calls his name.

  
  
***

  
That's it, then.  
  
That's the end of his journey, or his current path, or whatever. It's the end.  
  
He holds a shoe in each hand on either side of his body, looking up at the early morning sky on the beach, sand getting in his hair, and it's the end.  
  
Zayn doesn't consider himself to have a family, hasn't in a very long time, so it shouldn't be a problem for him now, to cut them out of his life. Even if their intentions were good, if they thought he needed to meet his mom, it doesn't change the fact that she showed up without them explaining it to him first, with the intent to have a shitty cup of coffee, tell him her bullshit reasons for leaving him, for setting him up for this life.  
  
It hurts, thinking about his mom's face, and how she stared at him from across the threshold, looked in his eyes. It hurts that June and Jamie spent a year trying to help him, and it ended this way, with Zayn alone all over again.  
  
He hurts all over.  
  
But it's the end, this longing within himself to find a place to belong, a family to call his own. He's done wondering and searching. It's over. His place isn't with a woman named Trisha, or in a house on Hendricks Ave, or in his little studio downtown that he trashed in anger. That chapter of his book can finally be closed, he can finally shut that part of his brain off entirely, because he likes to be alone anyways, he's always said so. He doesn't have to answer his phone if they call, or feel like a dick for skipping dinners, because it's done. He's finally alone. For real, for good.  
  
He reaches in his pocket and pulls out an Oxy and an Adderall and a molly, because why not?  
  
Zayn doesn't like to think about anything when he's high, so he doesn't.

  
  
***

  
Zayn takes buses around Los Angeles for the rest of the day, high as a kite, sunglasses over his face so no one can see, taking random bumps of coke from the last seat in the back. He goes down Hollywood Boulevard and sees the stars laid in the ground, streaks the window with his finger prints as he stares at tourists, taking pictures and pointing to the Chinese theater like it's cool instead of tacky, which it is.  
  
He flies down the highway, looks out at the ocean from the safety of the bus, sees the Hollywood sign from Sunset a few times, flashing past him as he winds his way around the city without a care in the world.  
  
A kid in a red sweatshirt stares at him for a while, somewhere on the west side, so Zayn tips his sunglasses up to his head and stares right back, eyes black, until the kid gets freaked out and looks away.  
  
Zayn smiles at that. You shouldn't stare at people, it's not polite.  
  
He's not sure where he's going, if he's going back to his shitty studio, or if he should go to the garage and crash there, or maybe call Anthony, or Dax. Maybe he can go to SPEC, maybe he can go sit in his old booth there and watch dancers that aren't Harry.  
  
Harry. Harry Harry Harry. Harry Styles, the boy who lives in a closet and collects shit and won't let Zayn see him.  
  
As the bus goes faster down the 101, Zayn's head feels like a spinning top.  
  
He rubs at his eyes.  
  
Harry makes Zayn feel good, simple as that. Even if it's just when he's rubbing his ass on Zayn's clothed dick, when they're fucked up and rolling, when they're over the ocean and somewhere else, when they barely know their own names. Harry's a stripper and probably makes all the boys feel good, deep down. But Harry let Zayn sleep in his bed, and Zayn left him water for when he woke up, and they were glad to find each other, and Harry kissed him so hard that night, so hard like he wanted to tell him something important, and even if he kicked Zayn out, there must be something there.  
  
Harry Harry Harry.  
  
Zayn takes the last bus towards the club, and that's that.

  
  
***

  
Zayn walks in after snorting enough coke for three fucking people, walks on unsteady feet, with a cold spine and sweaty palms, to see Harry already on stage.  
  
The bouncers know him by now, know he's cool, because otherwise he's sure they'd see him walking in coked out of his mind and throw him to the curb. It's bad for business to have people that fucked up inside a strip club. And if Zayn didn't look pathetic enough as it is, he nods to the bouncer on his left, his cheeks enflamed, lips quivering slightly, and he knows the guy feels sorry for him.  
  
That's a running theme lately, people feeling sorry for Zayn Malik.  
  
Harry's magnetic, of course he is, as he runs his fingertips across his chest, hard enough to leave marks. He's in leather shorts, tight around his ass and erection, and black boots. It must be a costume tonight, something for the BDSM fans in the crowd, leather and scratch marks and pain. Because even if it doesn't hurt, as Harry falls to his knees and bounces, nails across his chest, he winces and closes his eyes, like it hurts, like it's good.  
  
Hands from the crowd reach up and touch him like always, across his legs and hips, up his sides even, and he smiles through it, looks at at the men below him and blows kisses. Harry knows how to get them where he wants them, as more hands come to him, with bills between their fingers. He plucks them from hands, moves with the beat, smiling.  
  
Zayn stumbles to the bar, stumbles over and grabs onto it, not sure how he's standing anymore, as he watches.  
  
Harry's so pretty, so light and gorgeous, his hair long and fluffy, his cheeks pink and dimpled. He only looks slightly out of it tonight, he seems more present than normal, maybe he's coming down off something, and Zayn envies that. Harry can go on stage and smile, even if he's having a rough day, even if he kicked Zayn out of his apartment the day before for opening a closet.  
  
Britney Spears comes on next, that song with the video where she dances on a pole, Harry's second song, as he strips off the shorts and moves around naked. The crowd gets louder, all drunk off their asses, happy to finally see his cock after the first song of teasing, and Harry gets into it. He dances harder, faster, like maybe he's on a dance floor by himself, or dancing around his apartment alone, naked and happy, instead of on this stage. Zayn sees him close his eyes a few times, drifting.  
  
He wants to touch.  
  
Zayn gets closer, steps away from the bar, out of the shadows, because he needs Harry.  
  
He shoves men out of the way, elbows them in their sides, a few cursing at him in pain, until he's at the edge of the stage, gripping it, holding on for dear life. Harry eventually opens his eyes, looks down to smile at the crowd, when they lock eyes.  
  
He doesn't stop, he'd never stop, never leave the crowd out to dry. He gets to his knees, moves his hips side to side, _gimme gimme more, gimme more,_ and Zayn's eyes almost cross, his heart rate picks up, as Harry looks at him. And just when he thinks he could curl up on the floor, close his eyes and give up for the day, Harry reaches for him. It's a small touch, something for Zayn amidst all these people, a hand to his cheek, and he leans into it, leans right into Harry's hand.  
  
But he pulls his hand back and stands back up, back to the crowd, clapping his ass as the men around Zayn cheer. They're all dancing now, together as a group, Zayn bouncing between them like a pinball, as Harry's song closes out, as he bends over, knees straight, ass shaking.  
  
Zayn stumbles back, towards the private rooms, away from the end of the song, away from Harry back on his knees.  
  
He falls back onto their couch, their little couch from weeks of fucking and touching, and he closes his eyes as his neck hits the back of it.  
  
He hopes Harry finds him soon.

  
  
***

  
"Babe?"  
  
Harry's voice sounds like a melody, a far away melody that Zayn tries to place, like a song he used to know but doesn't remember. It's coming from rooms away, like he's calling to Zayn to come find him.  
  
"Zayn?"  
  
It's a whisper, though. It's quiet and soft and Zayn wants to hug it to his chest.  
  
"Open your eyes," Harry whispers, closer now, in Zayn's ear.  
  
So he does.  
  
Zayn blinks a few times, slowly, coming back to himself, waking up, coming to, something like that. Harry's in his lap like old times, holding his face in his hands, thumbs running across his cheekbones, under his eyes. He tries to focus on Harry's face, to really see him, after what felt like weeks of not seeing him up close, even though it's only been a day. It's been a day since Harry told him to leave, made him go, made him go home to his apartment when Trisha showed up and fucked it all up.  
  
"What did you take?" Harry says in a low voice, kissing his cheek.  
  
"Everything," he huffs, like it hurts to speak.  
  
"Oh babe," Harry whispers in his ear, leaning in, pulling his hands from Zayn's face to instead wrap them around his shoulders, around his body, clinging to him.  
  
Zayn's heavy arms finally start working again and he brings them to Harry's back, holds on, holds so tight he's afraid it might hurt.  
  
"Can I make you feel better?"  
  
Zayn blinks, buries his face into Harry's neck. He doesn't want a dance, he doesn't want Harry to touch his dick, or touch him, or suck him off, or go back to the club. He doesn't want to share.  
  
Maybe Harry can read his mind. Maybe he's a mind reader or an alien, because he leans back and looks at Zayn, brings his hands to his face again.  
  
Zayn feels his face getting hotter, feels the flush rushing to his cheeks, his eyes clouding.  
  
"Tell me where it hurts, babe," Harry whispers. "Tell me."  
  
So he does.  
  
"I'm sorry I opened your closet," Zayn sniffs, words falling out of his mouth too fast, his own hand slapping at his chest now, where his heart beat feels _off._ "I didn't mean to open it. I didn't mean to see your pictures. I just… I want to go home, and I want to leave, and I want to sit still. I feel like I'm about to go away, like I'm going someplace, like I don't belong anywhere. And I liked being at your apartment, I liked seeing all your shit, and I want to know where it came from. I want to know your middle name and if you like eggs in the morning and if you're scared of anything. You don't seem scared at all, you never seem scared. And I want to go, and I don't want you to make me leave. Please don't make me leave."  
  
He barely even got a breath in, could barely feel his lung after it all spills out, the nonsense, the mash-up of words and feelings and emotions he usually quiets with pills.  
  
And as Harry stares at him, as he thumbs at Zayn's cheek, he nods.  
  
Zayn lied though, because he does think Harry gets scared, he can see Harry is scared right now, but it's a lie they both want to savor and hold on to, so they do.

  
  
***

  
Zayn doesn't feel settled until Harry's walking towards him after his shift, as he waits in the parking lot, coming down from his high, eyes tired, body spent. Harry carries his brown bag, the black henley unbuttoned and sticking to his chest slightly, his hair wet under a black beanie. He looks so open and honest, Zayn could stare all day.  
  
He decides as he gets into Harry's car, slowly, arduously, that this is his favorite version of Harry, this clean, pale, fresh version, like a newborn baby coming out of that club every night. Maybe he says it out loud, because Harry chuckles a little as he does his seat belt for him.  
  
Harry drives just as erratic, a frown on his face, as he takes them to his place in Silverlake, the large room he lives in filled to the brim with stuff. He throws his hand to Zayn's chest twice, as he slams on the brakes, as he takes a corner too fast, and Zayn holds on the second time, sure if he lets go, he'll slump over and fall asleep.  
  
His apartment is just as cluttered and messy as the day before, boots in the way of the door, books open and scattered across the floor and table by the bed. Harry turns only one small lamp on and it sends shadows across the mess, across the bare walls. Zayn eyes it all as he kicks off his boots and socks, takes in more details he missed the day before, the coat rack with a fur coat on it, the stack of board games in the corner, the boxes stacked against one wall, neatly, in some sort of order. They're not labeled, but Zayn has a feeling Harry would know what each box holds, and why, could open them for Zayn to prove it.  
  
But Zayn doesn't ask any questions because he's tired, and his body hurts, and he wants to rest.  
  
He's just about to fall on Harry's bed, too exhausted to take off his clothes, when Harry's hand wraps around his wrist, pulling them together.  
  
Zayn falls against Harry's broad chest, stumbling slightly, looking up into his eyes.  
  
"You coming down?" Harry says against his mouth.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Let's get you showered and ready for bed then," Harry breathes into his mouth, kissing him.  
  
Zayn kisses him back, slips his tongue into Harry's mouth on an exhale, because it's addicting, his taste and his tongue and his body heat.  
  
Harry breaks the kiss first, turns him around swiftly, and marches him into the bathroom. Zayn stands there, feels helpless, as Harry strips off his hoodie, his shirt, undoes his jeans, tugs them down his body with his briefs, until he's naked, with his eyes closed. He breathes through it.  
  
He breathes as Harry nudges him into the shower, under the hot spray of water, eyes closed, until Harry steps in behind him.  
  
Zayn's never felt this before, he realizes, as Harry tucks his head over his shoulder, lips against his neck. He's never felt this kind of embrace before, someone behind him, holding him, hands running along his hips, as the water pours over them. He holds himself up, hands out on the tile in front of him, afraid he's going to fall, as Harry holds him tighter, his toes knocking into Zayn's feet.  
  
Zayn cries then, hates himself for it, as the tears fall out, get mixed up in the hot water. And maybe Harry pretends not to notice, because he reaches for the shampoo then and lathers it in his hands, fingers working across Zayn's scalp, digging in and letting up, over and over, rinsing him. His body wash smells like Harry always smells, clean and simple, and Zayn feels his hands working over his shoulders, his back, his arms, down his torso to his thighs, ghosting over his groin and ass only lightly, just a wash, to get him clean. And Zayn's thankful, because he's never had someone hold him before, never had this, so he'd like to keep it like this, for now.  
  
He feels like he can't stop crying, feels his face still screwed up, from the rush of emotion, from Trisha and his J's betraying him for his own good, from Trisha leaving again and hating himself for not accepting that cup of coffee and turning off his phone and being alone.  
  
Zayn ends up turning around to grab for Harry then, as he sniffs and opens his eyes. Harry stares at him for only a moment before leaning in and kissing him again, knowing Zayn wouldn't do it himself.  
  
They fall asleep in Harry's bed, Zayn still coming down slightly, Harry stone cold sober, naked, with wet hair and puffy faces.  
  
They tangle up and Zayn hopes Harry doesn't make him leave.

  
  
***

  
Zayn wakes up the next day with Harry's lips on his neck, tasting his skin.  
  
It startles him slightly, now that his head is clear and he can think properly, the fact that he's in Harry's bed again, all of the past few days' events coming back to him one by one, as he tries to place them in the right order.  
  
He feels clear, which is new, a clarity he didn't think he'd have for a long time. It must be Harry, he decides. Harry levels him. Harry brings him back down.  
  
He realizes that it's not exactly the next day, because the light streaming in through the open window hitting Harry's strong back, is from the sun setting. Zayn can't look away because it's addicting, the skin and muscle of Harry's back, leading down to his ass, the ass Zayn spanked so hard it turned as red as a tomato. Zayn smiles into Harry's hair as the light settles around them.  
  
"Edward," Harry mumbles, body shifting so he's on top of Zayn now, face never leaving his neck.  
  
Zayn feels his face contort, confused.  
  
"My middle name is Edward," Harry chuckles, biting him slightly.  
  
Zayn smiles again, remembering his soliloquy from the night before, the confessions he made in a panic, high as fuck, practically crying. He's glad Harry only reminds him of the good parts, the parts that make sense when sober.  
  
"What's yours?" Harry continues.  
  
"Don't have one," Zayn mumbles into his hair, bringing his hands up to scratch at it.  
  
"Oh, okay," Harry bites him again, sitting up.  
  
Zayn could take in this view all fucking night, Harry straddling him, his cock half hard and delicious. Zayn feels his own perking up, feels it filling against his hip, as he brings his hands under his head, to stare as long as Harry will let him.  
  
"And I like eggs in the morning, but I don't know how to make them," Harry smiles, fingers in Zayn's chest hair.  
  
"I don't either," Zayn laughs then, a real laugh, the sound foreign in his mouth.  
  
Harry laughs with him, shifting his weight slightly, which Zayn groans at because he's getting harder the longer Harry sits on him, and he wants to do something about it soon.  
  
"Do you…"  
  
"I don't want to talk," Zayn reads his mind, grabbing his hips to flip them over.  
  
Harry must like that answer because he exhales as Zayn lays between his legs and kisses his neck. Harry must like it a lot because he groans as Zayn bites his skin, licks at him, up to his ear, tasting.  
  
"Zayn," Harry starts, his breath labored as Zayn ruts against him, as their cocks slot together, Zayn's precome slicking them both.  
  
"No talking," Zayn bites him again.  
  
"No, I know… I just… want you to know," he whines, as Zayn grabs his legs and spreads them further. "I just… I put my number in your phone, and I put yours in mine, because you can call me. If you need me, okay?"  
  
Zayn stills and leans back to look down at Harry, his wrecked face, his pink cheeks.  
  
"You can call me. And you can come here when your head gets to be too heavy. Just… just don't open my closet, okay?" Harry bites his lip, willing Zayn to let it go, for now.  
  
And Zayn does let it go, let's it all go.  
  
Except. Zayn has to know.  
  
"Did you fuck that cowboy? That old guy in the boots, with the mustache? Do you fuck people a lot?"  
  
Harry stares at him, a smile creeping onto his face.  
  
"I won't be mad, I won't like…" Zayn gestures, not knowing how to say it, that he doesn't own Harry, that he gets it's his job, but he needs to know.  
  
"No," Harry shakes his head with a small smile, "I didn't fuck him. His boyfriend can be a dick to him, and he likes to get dances from me sometimes, likes to tell me his problems."  
  
Zayn nods furiously before kissing Harry, hard. He bites his lip and groans into it, because he knows Harry's middle name now, and he can come over when he needs to, and Harry let him cry in his shower, and Harry didn't fuck the cowboy. He trusts Zayn in his place, trusts him not to open the closet, and he won't, he won't even look at it until Harry says so, some day.  
  
He kisses Harry because even if he's alone, even if he'll always be alone deep down, maybe they can be alone together, sometimes, when they both need it.  
  
He kisses Harry because he knows now, knows in his gut, that Harry Styles doesn't fuck his customers. He didn't fuck that old guy, and maybe he lets people touch him, maybe he dances on their laps, but he's with Zayn now, here, right this second.  
  
"What do you want?" Zayn says into his mouth, reaching down to grasp them both in his hand, stroking them together. Because Harry took care of him, took care of his head, and he'll take care of Harry, until Harry tells him to stop, until Harry makes him leave.  
  
"I want… I want you… I want you to fuck me," Harry mumbles, eyes closed, already on edge.  
  
"You sure about that?" Zayn bites his neck. "You feel like you could nut in my hand, now."  
  
Harry moans as Zayn's thumb runs along his slit, before gripping their shafts together, tighter.  
  
"No, no, no," Harry whines, scratching Zayn's back. "I want you to fuck me. C'mon."  
  
Zayn speeds up his hand.  
  
"Are you dancing tonight?"  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, I have to… I have to go soon, I have to dance."  
  
Zayn lets his own cock go, focuses solely on Harry's, faster.  
  
"I'm gonna fuck you, and then you're gonna go dance for strangers, but you'll think of me, okay?"  
  
"Okay, I will," Harry cries, legs tensing, as Zayn finally slows his hand.  
  
Zayn feels like he's going to come all over Harry's stomach, feels his blood coursing through his body like it's lava, hot and needy and on the verge of something big. So he busies himself with grabbing lube and a condom from Harry's drawer, as fast as he can, Harry under him with his eyes closed, breathing steadily to hold off.  
  
Zayn drizzles the lube on his fingers and rubs one against Harry's hole, lightly, just a soft brush to prepare him, when Harry grabs his arm.  
  
Zayn looks up at him, confused, to see Harry staring, eyes open wide, face blank.  
  
"Fuck me," he huffs, looking at Zayn like he's crazy.  
  
"But," Zayn gestures to his body, "I gotta get you ready, I want you ready for me."  
  
"No," Harry says, clear as day, harshly. "Fuck me."  
  
Zayn feels thrown off, at Harry insisting like this, like it's the last thing he'll ever do. They're both sober, they haven't dissolved a pill between them, haven't snorted anything, and this should be simple, easy, like riding a bike.  
  
"But it'll hurt," Zayn questions, still confused.  
  
"No it won't, just do it," Harry rushes out, grabbing the condom and sliding it down Zayn's length before he can protest.  
  
Zayn watches, transfixed, as Harry lubes him up, strokes him a few times, before bringing his wet finger to his hole, lubes himself for a second, before dropping his arms up by his head. Waiting.  
  
Harry nods, his cock swaying slightly, smacking against his stomach, wet at the tip. He spreads his legs wider, impatient.  
  
Zayn still feels thrown off, still feels like his nerve endings haven't quite caught up to him, but he leans down on his forearms, kisses Harry lightly, before lining himself up. He runs the tip of his cock against him, feels him, readies himself, before pushing in.  
  
Harry hisses, his entire body tenses, his eyes snap shut.  
  
Harry wanted this, he asked for it, and Zayn won't let him down. So he shushes him, whispers in his ear, _you're okay, you're good, just relax, let me in._  
  
And Harry does, as best he can, his legs coming to rest around Zayn's hips, fingers digging into his arms, hot breath in his ear. He takes Zayn, inch by inch, so fucking slowly, Zayn's afraid his dick is going to snap clean off.  
  
Zayn leans back to see his face, to see how red he is, the moisture leaking from the corners of his eyes, and he almost stops, he really almost just pulls out and tells Harry to get a fucking grip, to let Zayn stretch him some, when Harry leans up and kisses him.  
  
It's needy and pliant and fucking amazing, how Harry can kiss him, can throw his emotions right into Zayn's mouth, even with the pain, and Zayn chases it like he chases a high. He kisses Harry back, tugs his hair lightly, as he pushes the last inch in, bodies finally connected.  
  
"Holy shit," Zayn grunts, as he stills, lets Harry adjust. "Holy shit."  
  
"Yeah?" Harry whines into his ear.  
  
"You… you're just… you're so fucking good, Harry."  
  
"You are," Harry hisses, as Zayn moves, just once.  
  
"Tell me when to move. You gotta tell me, you gotta… just tell me. Tell me when," Zayn babbles, shutting his eyes, willing himself to not move.  
  
"I just wanna feel it," Harry sighs, body relaxing all at once, letting go.  
  
That's Zayn's cue, he realizes, so he shifts his body slightly, to get better leverage with his knees, and rolls his hips. He rocks a few times, moves their bodies together as Harry breathes through it, before sliding almost all the way out. Harry clenches around him, won't let him go, and Zayn groans as he shoves back in, moves forward, takes all the momentum he has. He fucks into Harry, over and over, into that heat and tightness, and he feels like he's floating.  
  
Harry's heels dig into his ass now, as his nails grip him around the shoulders, sharp and unrelenting, and Zayn's sure he's drawing blood. But he can't stop now that he's started, now that he looks down and sees Harry's body moving beneath his, eyes closed, face contorted.  
  
If they were high, he might wonder where Harry is, where he's flying off to, but they're here, and sober, and in this bed, so he leans down to remind him. He kisses Harry sweetly on the mouth, sweeter than his present position would suggest, and Harry slowly opens his eyes.  
  
"I'm right here," Zayn whispers against his mouth, before biting into Harry's bottom lip.  
  
That's what makes Harry come, untouched, out of nowhere, without warning, that bite, and Zayn almost cries out, it's so good. The hot strings of come practically slam out of Harry, up his stomach and his chest, as Zayn pounds into him, chasing his own orgasm like he chased Harry after he quit the club.  
  
"I wanna feel it," Harry grunts, harshly, looking up at him.  
  
Zayn comes with one last cry, one last snap of his hips up and into Harry, deep, so deep he doesn't know how he'll pull out, because it feels too right. He wants Harry to feel him, feel him filling him up, because he's Zayn's, if Harry will allow it, as his eyes shut, as he comes down.  
  
Harry moves his hair away from his forehead, smooths it, and that's what brings Zayn back, what makes him look at Harry again, that tenderness he's never known.  
  
Harry kisses him, licks at his mouth, so Zayn kisses him back.  
  
An hour later when Harry's leaving, when he's shutting the door to head to work, he stops and looks back at Zayn still in bed, laying on his stomach, watching him go.  
  
"I'll be back," he smiles, gripping his bag tighter.  
  
"Okay," Zayn looks at to him, sending the message with his eyes, to think of Zayn when he dances.  
  
Harry rolls his eyes, but nods as he shuts the door with another smile.

  
  
***

  
Zayn only goes back to his apartment three days later because he needs clothes.  
  
He throws everything he can fit into a duffle bag, a bag Harry handed him on the way out the door, the few items of clothing he owns, the shoes and boots he's collected the last few years, his toothbrush, toiletries from the bathroom, and his stash. The box with his pipe is broken, too broken from when he threw it after Trisha showed up, so he leaves it on the floor with the other shit he doesn't need.  
  
As he looks around at the space, this tiny space he lived in since June's, he sees a stranger's home.  
  
It's not his home, it never was, and as he shuts the light off and pulls the door shut, he wonders if he'll ever go back.  
  
He doesn't.

  
  
***

  
_"I miss you. I miss you every day, even though you might not miss me. Or us. June's a mess, you know. She hardly says anything when I'm around her now. Even the kids in the second bedroom say she's different. Quieter. Sad. I just… call me. Whenever. And if you don't, I'll stop calling you. Maybe. Eventually. Maybe."_

  
  
***

  
It's a shame Zayn can't deal at the club anymore, it really is. Because it would be nice to drive over with Harry, set up in his booth like before, deal there because it's easy, while leaning back and watching Harry perform. But he's not stupid, and neither is Dax, so when he goes to the garage every day to work on the cars and pick up product, he knows, he gets it, that he has to meet his regulars across the city.  
  
Zayn's always done it all over, across Los Angeles, wherever he's needed, but now that he's at Harry's, now that he stays there exclusively, it's a pain in the ass to get home, to get antsy on the bus or the train back to Silverlake, when all he can think about is Harry's mouth.  
  
Their hours are ridiculous, Harry dancing late into the night, Zayn dealing some nights even later. They sleep all day, tangled, a mess of limbs and heat, and spend their nights off work, after work, fucked out of their minds, still usually tangled and hot.  
  
It's always a toss up, who will get home first, who will surprise who with a blow job and a line of coke. Some nights Zayn walks in and Harry's already there, walking in circles, pacing, pulling at his hair, his eyes black, his hands shaking. Zayn always flies to him then, always grabs at him to remind him that he's there, that he'll fly with Harry, he'll catch up. And he always does, because not long after, they jump on the bed until their legs ache, or they fuck on the floor, or Zayn blows him while Harry writhes on the mattress.  
  
Other nights Zayn gets home first, walks into the empty (but full) apartment, and he has to wait for Harry, much the same way, pacing, nervous, anxious for Harry to come home to get a hit, a hit of Harry Styles, because some nights it feels like a real, actual thing, like Harry is morphine, like he's the quiet to the storm in his head.  
  
Zayn knows, he understands, that Harry has a storm in his head as well, that something plagues him like something plagues Zayn. He doesn't know what it is, and even though he has a feeling it has something to do with his family, he never asks, because Harry never asks, never even hinted at asking why Zayn came to him crying that night, the night Trisha fucked it all up.  
  
They don't talk about their families, or lack thereof. They don't talk about the men who come to see Harry every night, the men he dances on top of, the men he lets touch him. Zayn hasn't been back to the club, not since the night he flew in and leaned into Harry's hand, the night he told Harry where it hurt. They don't talk about Zayn's regulars, or Dax, or Anthony, and they definitely don't talk about what they are, or where they're headed together.  
  
For weeks and weeks, it's night after night of lines and blow and pills and joints, and Harry's music box slowly depletes, to the point they have to start using only Zayn's drugs, the drugs he's supposed to be selling. It's not enough to make a huge dent in product, but it's not exactly in Dax's business model to snort that which he's trying to make a profit from.  
  
Dax gives him a look one day, as Zayn hands him the cash, and he must know, because Zayn has bags under his eyes and a tremor to his hand. But he doesn't say anything.  
  
And whenever Zayn's phone rings, whenever it lights up with June's face, or Jamie's stupid grin, Zayn ignores it. He ignores it like he ignores the tremor in Harry's hand, when they're flying.  
  
They fly and soar and roll, for weeks, and it's addicting.  
  
Zayn doesn't think about being alone, doesn't think about his lack of family, doesn't think.  
  
Harry doesn't ask, doesn't tell Zayn anything else about himself, doesn't ask Zayn for a thing.  
  
Zayn catches Harry only once, when Harry thinks he's asleep after they fucked twice, once on the armchair and once in bed, sitting in the middle of the floor, his back to Zayn. He doesn't understand at first, what Harry's doing, until he focuses his eyes, his hazy brain slow on the up take, and sees the closet wide open. It's still bursting with shit, random coats and more boxes, a guitar case, a sowing machine, another set of golf clubs. Harry sits with his legs crossed, in a pair of boxers, back hunched slightly, facing the doors, wide and open, pictures covering the wood.  
  
Zayn watches Harry's back, sees the muscles move every so often, as he sits and looks in his closet, as he peruses his pictures, the pictures he hides behind closed doors. Zayn knows these are the only pictures Harry has of his family, besides the lone photo he keeps at his station at work, three smiling faces that stare at him while he oils up his skin before going on stage for strangers.  
  
When he shifts, when he slowly stands up and shuts the closet doors, Zayn turns his head away. He won't let Harry know that he saw, won't betray him like that. And when Harry crawls into bed and curls around his body, Zayn finally drops off to sleep.

  
  
***

_"You can always come home, Zayn. I'm sorry about finding Trisha and her showing up at your door. Jamie's sorry, too. I promise. We're so sorry. But you can always come home. You're not by yourself, you're not. Come home."_

 

***

It all crashes because Zayn wants to watch, like old times.  
  
It's stupid of him, he knows, as he walks towards the club, because he doesn't need to see Harry dance anymore. He gets Harry after the dances, after his shifts, when he's hungry for it, hungry for him. He gets Harry alone, in bed, in the shower, against the wall, in the kitchen, over and over. He gets Harry's body like no one else does, because Harry's his. And he's Harry's.  
  
But after Zayn gets back early that night, his regulars having canceled on him at the last minute, he paces back and forth, before deciding to go watch Harry work.  
  
He didn't get to see Harry much that day, after they woke up, groggy, dehydrated, like a couple of wrung out gym towels, nasty and sweaty, Harry jumping into the shower immediately, not looking Zayn in the eye. He seemed out of it, and not just from the come down, but genuinely out of it, mind elsewhere, sad, gone.  
  
Zayn realizes it as he circles Harry's (their?) apartment, that Harry seemed gone.  
  
He also realizes that he hates when Harry gets home after him, because even though he showers at the club before leaving, Zayn knows he has to because his skin was touched by so many other people. It stares him right in the face, when Harry walks in after him. Harry, touched and groped and rubbed on, over and over, and they don't know that he's Zayn's.  
  
Zayn gets there in record time, high as a kite, spine cold as ice, freezing, cracking beneath his skin, and the bouncers let him in no problem. He knows he's on edge, that he's itching for something, maybe for Harry, maybe for another bump, something. Itching. He ignored his phone more than usual that day, Jamie's face practically screaming at him every time it went off.  
  
But Zayn doesn't let it get it him, because tonight, he knows he'll watch Harry dance, watch him smile and laugh for gross men in the crowd, but smirk over at him, because Zayn is his, too.  
  
Zayn waits by the bar for only five minutes, nodding to the bartenders he knows well enough by now, a beer in his hand, when the music blasts from the speakers, a dumb fucking T-Pain song that Zayn hated when it was on the radio, and hates even more now.  
  
Harry bounces on stage, a smile plastered to his face, and Zayn knows, immediately, that it's all wrong.  
  
Harry's fucked. He is beyond fucked. He's so fucked, he might not even know he's on stage at the moment, and might just envision himself flying somewhere else. Maybe he thinks Zayn is with him, dancing behind him, maybe he can't think at all. He's fucked, and dancing wildly, hair flying around his face, ass bouncing as T-Pain's voice carries, as the bass drops and drops.  
  
When he falls to his knees, it's a literal fall, as his uncovered knees slam into the stage, hard. Harry doesn't even flinch, he just grabs at his dick, reaches a hand in his briefs and actually starts to stroke himself.  
  
The crowd goes fucking crazy, as he throws his head back and closes his eyes. The bartenders whistle behind Zayn, surprised as well.  
  
Harry Styles, on stage, jerking himself off in his briefs, to a room full of strangers.  
  
Zayn sits dumbfounded, not sure how to react, gripping his beer tighter. He's reeling from it, too fucked up himself, to comprehend what's happening.  
  
Just then, Harry brings his head up, opens his eyes, and looks down at the crowd, eyes crazy. He doesn't focus on any one face for longer than half a second, as he bounces up and down on his knees. He rolls to his side, lays on his back, and slips his briefs off his legs, tangling them somewhat, as the song changes.  
  
He's back on his knees in no time at all, back to staring into the crowd as he pulls his hair, scratches at his chest, his stomach, his thighs. The crowd gets louder the longer he touches himself, and like before, Zayn's not prepared when Harry reaches out and grabs the hand of a hot guy towards the front. Harry pulls at his arm, harshly, as the guy stumbles up against the stage.  
  
Harry places the guy's hand on his cock, has the guy grasp him, and he throws his head back again. The guy turns to his friends, excitedly, hand flying up and down Harry's huge dick, a look of utter glee on his face.  
  
The crowd goes even fucking crazier, as a guy jerks Harry off, right there on stage, for them all to see.  
  
Zayn slams the beer on the bar so hard, it almost cracks. He's just about to propel himself forward, to rush the stage and beat the ever living shit out of the guy touching Harry, when Harry smiles down at the crowd and moves the guy's hand away, pushing him back into the crowd with a wild wink.  
  
Harry's back on his feet, back to the crowd now, ass shaking, bending over, spreading himself.  
  
Zayn sees red, feels like his eyesight will forever burn red, he's so fucking angry.  
  
Harry turns back around and finishes out the song, body swaying, dick smacking up against his stomach, hands in his hair. He ends by turning in a circle, turning and turning, probably making himself dizzy, and Zayn knows he's fucked, can see it. He's so fucked.

  
  
***

  
Harry finds him first.  
  
He's surprised, as he leans against the bar, hands on the edge, head hanging down, trying to catch his breath, when Harry comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his torso.  
  
"Babe, you're here," he slurs into Zayn's ear.  
  
Zayn turns in his arms to look at him, eyes angry, black, gone.  
  
"The fuck was that?" he hisses, as Harry holds him closer, crowds up completely against him.  
  
"What?" Harry questions, confused.  
  
"So you let guys get you off on stage now? That's happening?"  
  
Harry shakes his head, back and forth, closes his eyes, like he's trying to swat the conversation like a fly, like it's hard, like it's too much. Zayn sees him mouthing no, no, no, over and over, as his fingers wring in his shirt.  
  
"Can we go home? Let's go home," Harry slurs again, leaning into Zayn's neck.  
  
Zayn grabs his hand and pulls him towards the back room so hard, if Harry were of right mind, he would've squawked at the movement.  
  
As it is, he just follows, his feet dragging, as Zayn pulls.

  
  
***

  
Zayn drove them home, obviously, even though he was pretty fucked up himself.  
  
He bursts through the door first, fists hitting the front door sharply, as Harry tumbles in after him, in his grey sweatpants and white tshirt. He didn't even shower, didn't get his bag, he just put on the clothes Zayn handed him and followed him to the car.  
  
The drive did nothing for Harry, the wind in his hair didn't sooth him or bring him down. He's still so fucked, too fucked, and if Zayn weren't so pissed, he'd be worried.  
  
Zayn walks in a circle in the apartment, Harry sitting on the bed, head in his hands.  
  
"What the fuck, Harry," Zayn says through gritted teeth, hands in fists again.  
  
"I just needed the money," Harry says in a low voice, into his hands.  
  
"Fuck that. You dance every fucking night and I've never seen that. Ever."  
  
"You're not there every night."  
  
Zayn shoves at a stack of boxes, the top box falling to the floor with a crash.  
  
"Don't," Harry hisses, pulling his head up swiftly. "Don't touch my shit."  
  
"Fuck off," Zayn yells, stomping around in a circle again.  
  
Zayn stomps, moves around the room he's been cohabiting in with Harry for months now, feels himself getting angrier. Harry dances, he knows that. He knows people touch him. But not like that, never like that, Harry said so. He only fucks the people he feels it with, and he only feels it with Zayn.  
  
When he turns around, Harry's in the middle of the bed, his almost empty music box in his lap, digging through it like a fucking child in a sandbox. He's scratching at the bottom, moving pill bottles and baggies around. He eventually grabs a pill and hurries to get it under his tongue, eyes closing.  
  
Zayn stares at him, at his fucked up Harry, getting ready to fly further, to go forward, more.  
  
He's miserable. He's really fucking miserable, Zayn knows. Because he's miserable too, and suddenly Jamie's old words come back to him, smack him across the face, at the realization of how fucked up they both are, now as a pair.  
  
Zayn stumbles to the bed after him, grabs the music box from his hands, grabs the first pill he can find, and shoves it down his throat.  
  
Harry looks at him. He looks at Harry.  
  
And then they're kissing, grabbing at hair, pushing clothes and briefs to the floor, speeding up the hill, cresting at the top, as Zayn's jeans fall. Harry groans into his mouth, skin on fire against Zayn's icy body, as they scratch and pull and push.  
  
"You're mine," Zayn bites into his neck, hard.  
  
"I know," Harry whines, biting him back, hard.  
  
"You're _mine,_ " Zayn bites his lip.  
  
"Show me," Harry bites him back, eyes set.  
  
So he does. Zayn quickly slicks his fingers and shoves two in Harry abruptly just how he likes, shaking his core, pulling that tremor out of him like only he knows how, Harry hissing and spitting curse words into the air around them, as they begin to fly.  
  
They start flying hard and fast, up over the bed, towards the ceiling, Zayn's fingers opening Harry up, stretching, pulling. And when he's good, when they both know it's time, Harry looks him in the eye, sort of, as focused as he can, and grabs for the lube near his head. He purposefully slicks Zayn up, without a condom, and lines him up with his hole, bearing down on him.  
  
Zayn grunts as he fucks into Harry raw, as their skin connects for real, for the first time, as they soar over Los Angeles.  
  
He grunts as Harry cries out, grunts over and over, fucks into him, fucks with a brand new sensation that he swears can't be real, swears has to be the drugs and the chemicals.  
  
He thinks he's going to come soon, that Harry's almost there, when he feels Harry's hands. They grab at his right arm, tugging, pulling at him. Zayn looks down at his face, tries to understand what Harry wants, when it clicks, as Harry puts Zayn's right hand over his throat.  
  
Zayn stares at him, stills his movements, unsure, as Harry whines a little at the loss of pressure on his prostate.  
  
Harry grips at his hand, forces him to hold his throat, tighter, hard.  
  
Zayn's fucked, he's so fucked, and Harry's fucked, and he's worried, never having done this before. He's spanked Harry, slapped his balls once, held his hands down, called him a whore. But he's never choked him, never for real, on purpose, never like this.  
  
Harry stares back at him, tells him to go on, so Zayn tests the waters, grasps at his neck as he starts snapping his hips forward again. It's not hard, not enough, because Harry groans in anger, in protest, until Zayn tightens his grip.  
  
"C'mon," Harry gasps, breathing labored, Zayn's hand holding him down by the neck.  
  
"Harry, I…" Zayn starts, nervous.  
  
"I wanna feel it," Harry gasps again, harsher. "Make it hurt."  
  
Harry takes both hands and clenches them around Zayn's wrist and arm, holds himself down with Zayn's hand, and comes across his stomach, eyes wide open, breathing cut off completely.  
  
He clenches so hard around Zayn, so forcefully, that Zayn follows right after, coming inside Harry, filling him up. He shudders through it, body convulsing, as Harry practically fucking sucks the come out of him, as he falls onto Harry's limp body.  
  
They lay together, breathing, fucked up and crazed, as Zayn's come seeps out of Harry slowly, dripping around Zayn's length. They lay together until Zayn slips out. Their orgasms do nothing to bring them down or help them sleep, not like it usually helps.  
  
Zayn's heart rate won't go down, won't slow, and he's starting to freak out, to tweak, the paranoia seeping in, as he jerks his body up and away from Harry, the vision of him crushing Harry's lungs, of him hurting Harry beyond repair. He flies backwards and out of the bed, scared.  
  
"Why did you do that? Why did I do that?" he starts to wail, hands in his hair, fucking freaked. He grabs Harry's sweatpants and throws them on, in a rush, his heart hurting.  
  
"I liked it," Harry slurs, sitting up.  
  
But Zayn can see the red marks, marks from his hand, on Harry's neck and he almost falls down.  
  
"Why did I do that? I shouldn't have done that. I can't hurt you," Zayn mumbles, walking in a circle again.  
  
"You didn't. Chill out, Zayn," Harry slurs, scratching at his hair, standing up to pull on a pair of briefs. "You're freaking out. It's okay."  
  
"No, no it's not. It's not okay. I can't do that. I can't do that again," Zayn paces. "I can't hurt you. I can't. I can't."  
  
Harry walks to him and pulls him close, pulls him against his chest, tries to calm him down. But Zayn can't calm down, because Harry's not calm, even if he's acting like it. He can feel and hear and sense Harry's heart beat going a million miles an hour under his ear, he knows, Harry's fucked, he's still so fucked, they're fucked.  
  
"I can't hurt you, and I don't want to, and I don't want you to do that again, pull my arm. I don't want you to get hurt, or go away, because I can't be alone."  
  
Zayn's tweaking hard. Too hard.  
  
Harry pulls back and stares at him.  
  
"I don't have June, or Jamie, and I sent my mom away, and I'm alone, and I can't be here alone, or have you leave me alone, okay? Just… I can't do that," Zayn pulls at his hair.  
  
 _"What?"_  
  
He finally stills, finally shifts his body to stand still, to turn and look at Harry, his Harry, even though it'll hurt to see the marks he made on his neck, the marks he fucking loathes. Harry is as still as a statue. Staring at him. Coming down.  
  
"What?" Zayn asks, confused.  
  
"What happened to Jamie? And who's June? And where is your mom? Why are you always with me? _Where are they?"_ Harry hisses, angry.  
  
Zayn shakes his head, too hard. His heart is still racing, and they've never talked about his family, or where he came from, or where Harry came from, and it's really not the time. Not when he's freaking out and in Harry's sweatpants, not when he's still pissed about Harry getting jerked off on stage and the fact that he choked Harry, hard, just minutes before.  
  
"It's nothing, don't worry about it," Zayn huffs, still shaking his head.  
  
"Tell me."  
  
"I… I'm an orphan, right? I've been an orphan since I was born. I'm alone. And I stayed with June and Jamie for a few years, before I was eighteen, but I don't anymore, and they're not my family. My mom showed up at my door, but she didn't want me, not really, so I asked her to leave, and that's it."  
  
Zayn's face hurts. His eyeballs hurt. And Harry won't stop staring at him.  
  
"You sent them all away?" Harry whispers, face cracking down the middle, splitting in anguish.  
  
"It's not… It's not like that. I'm… I'm alone, right?"  
  
Harry's entire body shakes then, in anger, with something below his skin, like he's about to jump out of it. He looks like he's about to lunge forward and smack Zayn, hurt him back, and Zayn wouldn't even mind, it'd be pay back for what he did before, but instead Harry leans over and knocks the lamp to the floor, the lightbulb shattering. He screams, he literally screams, he's so mad.  
  
"Why would you send them away? Why would you leave? Why are you here?!" he yells, eyes wet now, face red with fury.  
  
Zayn stands still. He doesn't know what to do.  
  
"You have a fucking family, Zayn, whether you like it or not. Jamie called you his brother, he said that when he picked you up after you got hurt, when he got to you in twenty fucking minutes. He was crying and upset and so scared for you, Zayn," Harry cries now, a tear rolling down his face. "He said you were his brother, and he's your family, and you have them. You had a mom show up and you sent her away. You should always have your family, always keep them close."  
  
Harry's sobbing now. And Zayn stands still.  
  
Harry shoves him out of the way, shoves him to the side, to get to his closet. He throws the doors open, the pictures flapping slightly from movement, the pictures of his mom and dad and sister, bright and shining faces staring down at them.  
  
"I would fucking die for them, you know? I would fucking do whatever it takes for them to be here, and you sent yours away," Harry cries, harder. "It's my fault. It's my fucking fault that they died, because I was driving, and they were laughing about a joke I told. The truck came out of no where, and I was driving, and I did it, and that's on me. Because they're gone, and I have all this shit, _their shit,_ and I stare at it all fucking day, because I can't get rid of it, I can't erase them like they never existed, and you think _you're_ alone? Fuck you, Zayn. Fuck you."  
  
Zayn's crying now too, he can't help it, as he feels himself curl up, as he feels it all crumble around him.  
  
Harry shoves around him again, walks to the boxes neatly stacked against the wall.  
  
He points to a box, staring at Zayn, still crying.  
  
"Gemma's yearbooks, art supplies, photo albums." Points to a second box. "My mom's cookbooks, favorite candles, yarn." Points to a third box. "Robin's law degree, law books, good tests of mine he saved in his desk."  
  
Zayn tries to reach for him, finally, as his brain catches up.  
  
"Is that why you came to me? That night you cried? Did I help you _get over_ you abandoning the people who love you? That's it, right? Well fuck you. Get out. You want to be alone? Then be alone, Zayn. Get the fuck out."  
  
Zayn stares at him.  
  
"Get out of my house. Get the fuck out!" Harry screams, eyes screwed shut, hands on his ears.  
  
And just like that first morning, when Harry caught him peaking in his closet, Zayn does. He grabs the few items of clothing he can find on the floor, his phone and wallet in his jeans, and walks out, as Harry's cries fill his ears, like it's the only thing he'll ever hear again.

  
  
***

  
Misery loves company.  
  
Jamie told Zayn that once, years ago, and he can't believe he let himself forget it until tonight, when Zayn saw the tornado forming, saw Harry pushing himself further off the ledge, and Zayn followed, willingly, happily.  
  
Two more pills on their tongues. Again.  
  
He's miserable and Harry's miserable. They're two miserable people, people who get fucked up and fly, so they don't have to stay on the ground and think, or talk. They're so fucked up, they can barely breathe properly.  
  
As Zayn walks the deserted streets near Harry's apartment, an apartment that was never his, Zayn thinks about where he's ended up, how this might've been inevitable all along.  
  
And as he rounds a corner, as his heart rate finally slows down to normal, he thinks it, the thing he's never seriously considered before. Now that he's more alone than he's ever been, all alone for real, he thinks it.  
  
Tonight instead of taking three pills, maybe he'll take thirty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me comments here, or come yell at me at this-onegoes.tumblr.com
> 
> The next chapter should be up by this weekend, I promise.


	5. Chapter 5

Zayn Malik, without fail, always does as he's told.  
  
People who go against the grain, who think they can go against direct orders as a form of rebellion, or even just for fun, the ones who think they can do the opposite of what the world expects of them, those are the people to watch out for. They're the ones who do the opposite of what their parents tell them to do, because deep down, they're bored. They've had parents, loving parents, get mad at them for touching hot stoves as babies, for skipping class as children, for not calling to say they'll be home late as teenagers. They had parents get angry at them, teach them how to behave by being worried, by masking their fear with anger. Kids who grow up in those houses, the kids who don't appreciate it, _they're_ the dangerous ones, not the kids like Zayn.  
  
Zayn's been told what to do his entire life, by adults and peers alike, but not in a loving way.  
  
Parents tell their kids not to cross the street, or to be home before dark, or to say please and thank you, because they want their kids to grow up strong, independent, nice. They want their kids to be good people. They want their kids to know they're loved. Zayn was told what to wear to adoption meetings, when to speak softer so people don't think he's a "bratty orphan," how to walk to get people to feel sorry for him. He's been told by social workers where to go, who to hand his file to, where to sleep.  
  
Zayn listens to orders, he sells to whoever Dax tells him to sell to, he follows through, he goes with the flow. Zayn does the opposite of what he should, most nights, in most situations, but he rarely disobeys a direct order. Zayn listens, but he doesn't understand that not every message is a firm sentence, that some messages can be a look, an eyebrow raise, or a labored cry.

He doesn't understand.

Because no one ever taught him how to read between the lines.  
  
So when June tells him she can't adopt him, even if it's for the betterment of other kids, he only hears that he's not wanted. When Jamie says they're brothers, while yelling at him that he's miserable, misery is _all_ Zayn hears.  
  
So when Harry tells him to leave, when he tells him to go away, to go be alone, Zayn does, no questions asked.  
  
Because Zayn never had a parent to teach him that anger can be love, that for every push, there's a pull. He never knew that when someone gets mad at you, it could be because they love you.  
  
Zayn doesn't know any of this. He doesn't think about it. And when Zayn gets overwhelmed, he just closes his eyes.

  
  
***

  
Zayn goes on a bender for three days straight, in the garage when Dax goes out of town, and he invites Carlos and David and the friends he met that one time. He forgets about the thought he had as he left Harry's, about taking a bottle of pills, which is a good thing, but it also means he forgets about Harry, which isn't such a good thing.  
  
He snorts so much coke, he gives himself a nose bleed, which is fascinating because that's only ever happened once before and that time, he only noticed the next morning when he woke up and had dried blood on his face.  
  
David thinks it's amazing, because he's flying so high he can't come down, and he stares at Zayn for a good twenty minutes, at the bright red dripping down his face, staining his teeth, as Zayn asks him over and over what it looks like, if it's bad, _is it bad, should I stop, because I can't really stop, can you stop, I can't stop, we can't stop, right?_ David tells him it's fine, and when he finally puts a towel to Zayn's face, the pressure doesn't even hurt.  
  
Zayn remembers thinking he needs a sign, to tell him what to do, where to go, who to be, but nothing comes to him, nothing happens. So he trudges on, follows Carlos off a cliff.  
  
They take pills and smoke from pipes and drink and smoke again and take more pills and cut lines and bleed from their noses and laugh over old "Seinfeld" episodes and snap their fingers because the sound is funny and Zayn doesn't think about anything, which is really, really nice, you know? It's really nice.  
  
And at the end of those three days, when Dax gets back and kicks them all out, his eyes angry, his face red from anger, as he yells at Zayn, Zayn covers his ears and blocks it out. Because it's loud and the last time he heard a loud noise that loud, it was Harry screaming and crying, with red marks around his throat from Zayn's fingers, and that was the worst, those marks and those sounds, so Zayn hums over it and lets Dax scream in his face.  
  
He doesn't hear it.  
  
He's falling.

  
  
***

  
"Zayn?"  
  
This voice isn't as sweet as Harry's, no voice is, really. It's firmer, harsher, has a slight accent to it, and Zayn doesn't like it so much. It's not sweet, there's no melody to it, there's no music.  
  
"Open your eyes," it tells him, right in his ear, sounding like a rock hitting a brick wall, with a thud, a dull crack.  
  
Zayn doesn't want to, because this voice doesn't sound nice at all, it doesn't sound inviting, like it's trying to find him, not one bit.  
  
"Zayn," it tries again, a little softer. "Open your eyes."  
  
So he does.  
  
Zayn blinks a few times, slowly, coming back to himself, waking up, coming to, something like that. Dax looks down at him on the disgusting couch they have pushed up against the far wall in the garage, his face swimming into focus as Zayn tries with all his might to breathe and blink and work his tongue into speaking, all at once.  
  
"Hey," he finally croaks out, shifting his body weight, reawakening his blood vessels.  
  
Dax sits on the couch near Zayn's feet, sighs, runs his hand through his thick Italian hair. He looks tired, worn out. Zayn hates himself, because he knows this is partly his fault.  
  
"I cleaned the blood off your face," he says, reaching for his cigarettes.  
  
"Thanks," Zayn coughs, sitting up fully now.  
  
They sit in silence for a few minutes, Dax smoking, Zayn breathing, and the whole garage feels too warm. The cars on the lifts, the cars with missing doors and engines, the pieces of metal strewn across the floor, all sit and feel like they're staring at Zayn, like he should be working on them, fixing them, selling them, making money. He shouldn't be sitting still on this couch and he shouldn't be making Dax this anxious.  
  
"You gotta get your shit together, man," Dax finally sighs, putting his cigarette out with his boot.  
  
"I know."  
  
"No, I'm serious. You blew so much product while I was gone, Zayn. Like, a fucking ton of it. You know I answer to other people, that I'm not the top of the chain, right? I gotta make up for this."  
  
"I know."  
  
"This was a lot of money. A lot of fucking money you just blew."  
  
"I know."  
  
Zayn hangs his head.  
  
"I need whatever you have in your wallet. Any money you have, is mine now. You know that, right? I gotta make up for it, Zayn," Dax shakes his head.  
  
Zayn just nods, because Dax isn't being a dick, he's never a dick. He's a realist and he's like Zayn, always following orders, always doing what he's told. They're small pieces to a larger puzzle, the small screws in a larger engine, and Zayn fucked up. So he reaches for his wallet, pulls out the massive wad of cash, and hands it over.  
  
"I'm sorry," Zayn whispers, ashamed.  
  
"You're done for now," Dax nods, a finality to it. "If you need to hear it, if you need to be told by your boss, then fine. This is me telling you. You're done, on a break for a while. You sell and you come here. That's it."  
  
Zayn Malik always does what he's told, so he nods back. He reaches out and smacks at Dax's shoulder, because Dax isn't really his friend, and he's certainly not his family, but he's kept Zayn around and he cleaned the blood off his face. And even though Zayn's alone, it's nice to sit next to someone who cleaned him up. It's nice.  
  
"Do you need anything?" Dax asks, hands on his knees, about to get up.  
  
"No, I'm good."  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Because all you have to do is ask, Zayn. I feel like you forget that sometimes. That if you need something, just ask. Ask me. Ask someone. If you need help, ask."  
  
Zayn nods, because it's polite, but not because he believes it.  
  
Dax gives him a look before he gets up, one look that Zayn can't read, a look like Dax wants to say something else. Maybe something along the lines of _go home, Zayn_. But he doesn't.  
  
Later, Zayn grabs the bags and stash Dax hands him, as he brings his hand up to smack Zayn's cheek just once, and that's that.

  
  
***

  
When Zayn's sober, he doesn't really know what to do with himself.  
  
And since he blew all his money on drugs, handing Dax everything he had, not having told Dax he's currently homeless, he especially doesn't know what to do with himself now. So he does what he's done in the past, and hops on a bus.  
  
Zayn rides around the city with the sun high above him, on bus after bus, with his sunglasses over his face and goes to his regulars. He waits for the texts and the phone calls, telling him where to meet, what they need, how they miss him. And since Dax told him he's done using for a while, for the time being, he doesn't take a pill or have any free bumps, he just sits and watches the world fly past the window, sober sober sober.  
  
Zayn doesn't think about much when he's high, so now that he's not, now that's down on the ground and depressed, he thinks about Harry.  
  
Zayn plays it like a movie in his head, the way they are, the way they met. He sees Harry dancing, sees him rolling his hips and smiling, big and wide, like he can't be touched. He thinks about Harry sitting on his lap for the first time, already had his hands in Zayn's hair before he even realized what was happening, the space between them closing before Zayn could react. Harry told Zayn his name almost immediately, when Zayn asked, because even from the beginning, Harry didn't make him wait. He let Zayn in from their very first conversation, without either of them realizing it.  
  
And when he quit the club, chasing the high of more money, running, when Zayn found him, when he finally caught up, Harry smiled and was so happy. Zayn was happy and they flew together when they were high, but they flew for a reason, because they fit together. They were like two little broken birds, with wrecked wings, fucked up feathers, and Zayn has to blink away tears as the Hollywood sign rushes past him, again.  
  
They spent weeks holed up in Harry's little apartment, surrounded by his dead family's stuff, day after day, and yeah, they were high for a lot of it. But they weren't always.  
  
Some afternoons Zayn would wake up to look over and see Harry curled in a ball, tightly wound, because even in his sleep, Harry seemed unsettled. Zayn would kiss his shoulders, run his cracked lips against Harry's soft skin, and it was perfect. They ate Chinese food on the floor and talked about all the books Harry read. He showed Zayn his record collection, because half were his, and he loved classic rock. Thinking back now, Zayn wonders who owned the other half, if the music was Gemma's, or Robin's. He never asked.  
  
There were a lot of things Zayn never asked, he realizes, as the sun sets and he steps on a bus bound for Silverlake.  
  
He never asked Harry what his first memory was, if he was so young, so tiny, that it only comes in flashes. He never asked Harry where he had his first kiss, if he was good at math, if he could add big numbers in his head, because that skill has always fascinated Zayn. He wonders if Harry travels, where his favorite place is, how quiet his thoughts can become, or if he silences them too often to remember.  
  
When Zayn walks up the stairs to Harry's apartment, it's like he's on autopilot. Because Harry told him to leave, told him to be alone, and he'd probably do anything Harry asked of him, to be honest. But tonight, he has to see him. He's not on uppers, he's not flying or gone or floating. He's been sober for a good twelve hours now, and it's quite the feat. Maybe Harry would like to see him now, maybe he'll let him in again.  
  
In any case, Zayn hasn't seen Harry for days now, he told Harry "you're mine" and Harry agreed. Zayn wants to see him, so he knocks on the door.  
  
He's falling.

  
  
***

  
_"We miss you. I hope you call us soon. We're here."_

  
  
***

  
Zayn ends up knocking for an hour.  
  
The knock gets drowned out, because the music's too loud, too booming, for a measly little knock to come through. He even tries calling through the door, demanding Harry open up and let him in. But it falls on deaf ears and Zayn very nearly gives up, when he decides to say fuck it and get in however he fucking can, which in this case, means using the key he got all those weeks ago. It's rude to use it now, when Harry asked him to leave for good, but Zayn's already on a roll, already disobeying, so why not.  
  
He unlocks the door, allowing Harry time to tell him to stop, but there's no resistance. He opens the door slowly, the Smiths record blaring in his ears.  
  
The place is still a mess, still a collection of stuff, and Zayn's eyes travel around the one big room, looking for a mess of hair, a lanky body, tucked behind a stack of boxes, coming up empty. Zayn steps in cautiously and calls for him. No answer. Nothing. So he works his way around the boxes and lifts the arm of the record player, plunging the apartment into silence.  
  
The silence doesn't last long, because a bull comes charging out of the bathroom, or so it seems, Harry's face too red, angry, limbs flying in anger, in nothing but a pair of boxers. He seems ready to yell at whoever turned off his music, until he comes to a complete stop and sees Zayn standing there, arms at his sides, grey hoodie heavy on his shoulders.  
  
"What are you doing here?" he says simply to Zayn, eyes wide.  
  
Zayn stares at him.  
  
"I told you to leave. I said to get the fuck out," Harry continues, voice even.  
  
"I wanted to see you. I wanted to ask you so many things."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because."  
  
Zayn looks back up to Harry's face, the face he could kiss for hours, the face he first saw on a stage, and the face he loves best when it's looking back at him, smiling, happy. But Harry's expression and face, they're both unreadable, distant, closed off.  
  
"I can't see you anymore, Zayn. I can't be around you," he finally says, blinking furiously.  
  
Zayn nods, head feeling heavy, too heavy.  
  
"You make me so fucking angry, and I can't. I can't," Harry shakes his heads, closes his eyes.  
  
And Zayn sees it, he realizes too late, that Harry's about to fly, that he must've taken something, snorted something, dissolved a pill or four under his tongue. He sees it unfolding before his eyes, Harry about to go off and soar, leaving him behind, again.  
  
Zayn's been sober for twelve hours and it's about twelve hours too long, because he's homeless and broke and Harry says he makes him angry. He doesn't think when he's high and he's been thinking all day, about Harry, about the skin on his shoulders, about his record collection and if he'll ever be invited to hear it again. All of a sudden, it's like deja vu. Zayn stands there and sees Harry, looks around and sees all of Harry's shit, sees the closet doors shut and far away, sees himself standing there with Harry days before, tears streaking their faces. He's back here, again, being told by Harry to leave, to go away, to be alone.  
  
Zayn stares at him.  
  
"It's been two years," Harry opens his eyes, zeroing on Zayn again, finally.  
  
But he's gone. He's already gone, his voice cracking, his eyes black, his skin coated in a sheen of sweat. He's talking, he's talking at Zayn, but he's gone. He might as well be talking to himself.  
  
"This week, two years ago, we were coming back from the airport. We picked up Gem from a weekend trip to Florida, she had been there visiting her friends. And she came back, so we picked her up, all of us, to go to dinner. So we were in the car, and I told this joke I heard about this rabbi, and it was okay, because it wasn't too mean to rabbis, or Jewish people, because we knew so many Jewish families. And Robin said it was okay, said I could tell the punchline, even though I was nervous, so I did, and we were all laughing so hard."  
  
Harry starts to pace, starts to walk back and forth, looking at the ceiling, the floor, the walls, eyes bouncing around.  
  
He's gone. He's flying and he's talking a mile a minute. Zayn can't keep up. He feels dizzy.  
  
"And it's so crazy, it's so crazy thinking about it now, because it was like slow motion, when you're driving and you see your surroundings, and everything's in color, but then all of a sudden, it's black and white and you feel like it's the opposite of 'The Wizard of Oz,' so you stop talking. And I stopped talking because it felt like everything stopped. We were in the middle of the intersection, and I was in the middle of my joke, and this truck ran a red light and hit us. I should've been more careful, I should've checked, I should've been more careful, I should've checked, I should've looked to see if any cars were coming, but the truck hit us and then it was black and white, and we were flying, you know?"  
  
Zayn closes his eyes.  
  
"The car rolled forever, it rolled for like a mile, I swear it. It rolled and rolled and I remember my arms flying around, my arms going every which way, and when we stopped rolling, we landed right side up, which is like… like how is that even possible, to roll that many times and still end up on the wheels, you know? When we stopped, I looked over and my mom wasn't in the passenger seat anymore, she wasn't there, and I groaned, but I couldn't hear any other sounds, and that was it, you know?"  
  
Zayn doesn't know. He doesn't know and he wants Harry to talk forever, to get it out, but Harry's not here anymore. He's in pain and Zayn needs something.  
  
So he reaches into Harry's music box, the one on his bed, and grabs the bottle.  
  
"I have all their stuff, see? I have all this stuff, because the house and Robin's cars, all the money they had, it got taken away because money's weird, right? Like you can have it, but it can be owed to so many other people, and go to so many other things, and life insurance wasn't a thing we set up, I guess. Because it all got sold and I only have my car because I wouldn't let them sell it, wouldn't let them take it. And I couldn't let myself move from this place, even though it's expensive, so I have to make money, I need money, all the time, I need money for my stuff and to stay here and to get pills. I just… I wouldn't let them take mom's chairs, or Gemma's trophies, and I had Robin's law books before anyone could get in to his office. So I have it all here," Harry rambles, walking around, touching his boxes, the books, the lamps, the chairs. He runs his fingers across everything.  
  
"Harry," Zayn tries, reaching for him.  
  
Harry hisses and falls away, falls back against the wall, like a cornered cat, like a child about to be beaten on a playground.  
  
"You can't touch me, you can't touch me right now," he says in a rush, eyes bulging.  
  
"Please," Zayn whispers.  
  
_Ask me for help. Can I ask you for help? Please?_  
  
But Harry doesn't ask, doesn't let Zayn say anything.  
  
Because Zayn's alone, and Harry's alone, and even though they should be alone together, Harry shakes his head. Zayn wants to scream it, that if they're going to fly, they should at least fly at the same time, in the same room, holding hands, not thinking as a unit. Zayn needs Harry. Harry needs Zayn.  
  
"You need to go, and you need to not come back here, because this is my stuff and I want to be here with my stuff," Harry nods fast, eyes closing. "Family is important, and all we have in this world are the people who make it up, the people who make it worth it, and you have people, but you won't talk to those people, so I can't talk to you. I wanted you the second I saw you, the second you looked up at me, the very fucking second I sat in your lap, but I can't let you be here anymore. Because you make me angry and I don't want to be angry any more than I have to be, so you need to go, and I have to go dance soon, I have to go dance. I have to go get on stage and let people touch me, let people hold me down, let their hands shake me over and over, because if I don't, I'll disappear, and I need someone to touch me, but it can't be you. Not anymore. I need to go, I need to go dance."  
  
"Can I come with?" Zayn tries again, voice cracking, finally breaking.  
  
"No," Harry breathes out, speaking on the exhale. "No, no, no. Go away. Please go away. Please let me go, please."  
  
It's not a direct order, not really. But it might as well be, because Zayn hears the pleading, the ache in Harry's voice, as he tells Zayn, again, to go. Zayn's lost count how many times Harry has told him to go, or left him alone, left him from the club, left him sitting on a couch, alone, drifting. He's forced Zayn out of his apartment so many times now, it's what he wants. It's what he's begging for.  
  
And because Zayn doesn't know any better, because he never had anyone to teach him how to hold tight, how to fight back, how to read between the lines, he does what Harry asks, and goes.

  
  
***

  
That's it, then.  
  
That's the end of his journey, or his current path, or whatever. For the second time, Zayn thinks, stumbling down to the street, it's the end.  
  
He realizes as his feet hit the pavement, again, that he still has the pill bottle in his hand, the one from the music box, and he hates himself for thinking it, but he's glad he has it. Because even though Dax told him not to, if he's going to go against every rule, he might as well do it right and forget it all for a while. He likes to forget. He needs to.  
  
He thinks it then, before he's gone completely, that his life just repeats itself, over and over, disappointment after disappointment, fight after fight, day after day, every day the same. If things were supposed to change, if things were ever going to get better, be better, be different, he would've had a sign by now.  
  
As it is, he's still falling, and that's that.  
  
Harry's a broken person who has to get fucked out of his mind to show his ass to strangers. He got so desperate to be seen, to feel something, anything, that he let a stranger touch him, get him hard, squeeze his cock relentlessly, his eyes wild, and then he forced Zayn to leave him again. He trusted Zayn to fuck him, hold him, choke him, keep him tethered to the earth, and then he made Zayn leave because they're the same and they're alone.  
  
Maybe that's his sign. Maybe Harry was a sign all along.  
  
So he walks for an hour, lets himself fly a little from the pill he took earlier, and wonders if this night will end like so many others, with him on a couch somewhere, or under a table, or in an alley, taking pill after pill, until his eyes become slits and he disappears inside himself entirely. He could do that so easily now, he could just take all of them.  
  
He eventually slumps against a brick wall, some office building, sinks down to sit, to be alone. He takes another two pills, is about to lean back and drift for the night, when he looks down and sees it.  
  
There on the concrete, next to his hand, is a baseball card.  
  
"The fuck," Zayn says, actually says out loud, as he grabs for it. It's Hanley Ramirez, the starting shortstop for the Dodgers, the mother fucker they were lucky to get three years ago, a 2006 Rookie of the Year, the guy who overextended his shoulder in 2007 like a goddamn idiot.  
  
It's weird, because on the darkest of days, for most people, there is always a moment of clarity, especially when it seems too dark to continue. It's a moment when you stop and think about what lead you there, how to stop yourself, what to think about to pull yourself back. And this is it, that moment, and Zayn doesn't even realize it, that this moment is his moment, the moment it all comes together. It's clarity. It's his mind clearing. It's the clouds shifting. Because after what Harry revealed, after Zayn gripped the pill bottle tighter in his hand, as he casually wondered if and when he'd die, Zayn sees that baseball card and thinks of Jamie.  
  
It's a sign.  
  
Before he questions why, before he even realizes he's doing it, he has his phone in his hand and he's hitting the call button.  
  
"Zayn?" Jamie's voice squawks, frantic. He was clearly asleep.  
  
"J, remember when we got Ramirez? Remember when he got traded to the Dodgers and we lost our minds? Remember that?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah of course. I remember," he rushes out, shifting blankets, clothing, something, as his voice gets clearer. "Where are you? You good?"  
  
"It was three years ago, right? He got traded to the team, and we thought, well shit, maybe things will turn around. And then the next year he had that homer in Game 1 against the Giants, remember? I came to June's that night, you came too, and we watched from the living room with those kids she had from the south side, remember? Remember how drunk we got? We lost it, J. Remember that?"  
  
"I remember. Of course I remember. Zayn, where are you? I'll come get you."  
  
"I shouldn't have left that night, J. I should've stayed the night. You asked me to, June asked me to. You said, 'Let's stay in our old room like old times, we're wasted, it's all good, let's stay.' But I didn't because I had to go sell, and I thought, 'That's not my room.' I should've stayed, I should've stayed that night, and so many other nights. I should've come to dinner more."  
  
Jamie doesn't say anything on the other end, but Zayn hears him sniff. He hears it, because he knows Jamie, and he knows that Jamie thinks he sounds like a crazy person, high as a kite.  
  
But it's all so clear.  
  
"I hurt all over, J. I hurt all the time, so bad, deep down, you know? And I thought since I came into the world alone, since it's just me, it'll always be just me, that I had to hurt by myself. I thought I was it, that this, this shit I do, this person I am, I thought this was it, right? But it's not. It's not. Because family is important, and all we have in this world are the people who make it up, the people who make it worth it, and you tried to find my mom to make me happy. You did that, June did that, because you're my family."  
  
Jamie cries outright then, like a baby, and if Zayn were of right mind, he'd at least make fun of him for it, just a little.

The baseball card was a sign, but Harry was a sign, Harry was always a sign. _You found me, I'm so glad._  
  
Zayn's vision starts to blur about then, his grip on his phone and the baseball card starts to loosen, and he knows he's about to go off the deep end. He can feel it. And for the first time in a long time, he doesn't want to.  
  
"Hey J?"  
  
"Yeah," Jamie coughs, trying to find composure.  
  
Zayn's vision blurs more, the baseball card falls to his lap, as he envisions Jamie's hand on his arm, like he used to when he needed to feel safe.  
  
"Can you come find me?"

  
  
***

  
Signs are a funny thing, it seems.  
  
Because a sign can come in the form of a baseball card, or a boy in a thong on a stage, or a dealer telling you to ask for help if you need it. But you won't see or recognize those signs until they're smacking you in the face, possibly all at once.  
  
Zayn's signs literally fell onto him, fluttered into his hand like a wilted leaf, that baseball card, leaped into his lap like a puppy licking his face, that boy.  
  
The other sign, the other piece of the puzzle Zayn needed to figure it all out, came to him in a dream that night, a dream Zayn didn't realize was a dream, it felt so vivid, like he was right back there. He didn't realize it was a dream because he didn't remember falling into it, didn't remember slumping against the wall, didn't see if Jamie ever found him or not.  
  
But nevertheless, Zayn dreams of that night so clearly.  
  
It was the night before his year anniversary, the night before it was to be a whole year since he came to June's house on Hendricks Ave. That night, it was Jamie's one year anniversary, a full year after the cops came and dragged him out of his house kicking and screaming, crying out for his mom, to save him, to take him with her. A year before, Jamie experienced the worst day of his life, the worst day a kid can ever imagine, getting taken away with just a backpack full of tshirts and a toothbrush.  
  
Zayn came to the bedroom door and listened intently, his ear pressed against it, as Jamie cried in their bedroom. Zayn had heard him cry quietly a few times at night over that first year, when he thought Zayn was asleep. This was different. Wracking sobs, pure and utter despair, as if the cries were coming out in a continuous wave of sadness.  
  
Zayn could heard June's voice, her soothing tone she used when she was trying to calm a kid down, like she did with that Max kid a few months before, when he tried to punch and kick at June when she wanted him to eat dinner at the table. She was shushing Jamie, probably running her hand along his back while he laid on his stomach on the bottom bunk, did that thing with her fingertips to calm the nerves.

It wasn't working.  
  
Zayn sank to the floor, sat on the other side of the door with his ear pressed even harder against it, trying to hear June, because he had a feeling he needed to hear whatever it was.  
  
"It's okay, Jamie. It's okay," she whispered.  
  
"I miss my house," Jamie cried. "I miss my mom and my room. I miss my mom. I want to go home. When do I get to go home?"  
  
Zayn had to dig his fingernails into his calves.  
  
"It's okay," she tried again. "It'll all be okay. You'll go home when it's time, alright? Your mom could get better tomorrow, yeah? She could come home soon. We won't know just yet. But everything happens for a reason, I promise. And we can be a family for now."  
  
"How? How, June? You're not my mom."  
  
"I know, love. I know. But we can be a family, us three, for now. If it can only be for now, it'll just be for now. I'll be me and you and our Zayn. We'll be a family, how's that sound?"  
  
Jamie calmed slightly. Zayn heard him shifting, probably turning over to face June, finally, his face wet and exhausted.  
  
"I guess," he sniffed.  
  
"It's okay, love. We'll be fine."  
  
Zayn figured it was safe to enter, so he did, he reached up to grab the handle and pushed the door open. June didn't seem surprised to see him, as Jamie hurried to rub at his face, to hide the evidence. Zayn crawled as quickly as he could to the edge of the bed, to June's legs, and leaned right into them. He rested his head against her thigh, her hand immediately going to his head, fingers running through his messy black hair.  
  
June grabbed for Jamie's hand and held tight, as Zayn's face felt hot against her jeans, as he whispered those fateful words for the first time.  
  
"We're brothers, J. It's okay."  
  
And it was okay, for years and years, the three of them as a unit in that little house. June helped Zayn navigate the world as a young adult, taught Jamie how to be a man. She showed them affection when they got good grades, taught them how to fix a leaky pipe, helped them realize what a steady routine was.  
  
Zayn Malik has had a family since he was eleven years old, when he was dropped off on a doorstep and a woman hugged him so hard, so fiercely against her body, Zayn's sure he felt it to the tips of his toes. It's not on paper, it's never been on paper, but Jamie realized it long before Zayn did, that it doesn't fucking matter if it's official because the people who raise you, the people who tell you what to do to keep yourself healthy and safe, those people are your family.  
  
Zayn didn't know it then, but maybe in his dream state, maybe now, he gets it. Because Jamie told him to stand up for himself at school. It was a direct order. And June made him eat more vegetables. It was a rule. Zayn follows direct orders and rules, he always has.  
  
And when he dreams that night, when he remembers the first time Zayn called them brothers, the first time June called them a family, Zayn smiles in his sleep.  
  
Maybe he's not falling anymore.  
  
Maybe he's finally landed.

  
  
***

  
It's weird, the things a person thinks when their head is finally clear, when the fog finally lifts. The first few thoughts, when all seems right with the world, or at least a few aspects of it feel right, they tend to be weird ones.  
  
For Zayn, it's that he hasn't had eggs in a very long time.  
  
Jamie makes them eggs the next morning, after Zayn wakes up groggy and dehydrated on Jamie's shitty couch in his shitty apartment by school. He serves them eggs on green ceramic plates, nice ones he bought from Target, and even makes Zayn coffee with cream and a shit ton of sugar.  
  
They're the best eggs Zayn has ever had, and he's pretty sure breakfast is his favorite meal.  
  
"I should wake up for breakfast more often," he mumbles, mouth full of food.  
  
Jamie laughs at that, a massive laugh Zayn hasn't seen in a long time.  
  
"You should, y'fucking idiot. The sun's kinda nice this time of day," he gestures to the window, still laughing.  
  
"Us drug addicts rarely see it, I guess," Zayn smiles, grabbing his coffee.  
  
It shouldn't be funny, none of it, not at all. It's ridiculous, how much of an idiot Zayn is, how true that statement actually is, how painful it probably is for Jamie, the child of a drug addict to hear. But they keep laughing and Jamie even spits food onto the table, his eyes watering. Zayn thinks, vaguely, the true come down, the withdrawal from all the pills he's been taking for a while now, is going to be a fucking bitch.  
  
"Fucking idiot," Jamie shakes his head, eyes crinkled at the corners.  
  
"Yeah," Zayn nods, smiles. "Yeah."  
  
If they're brothers, if they're going to repair the crack in their relationship, the crack Zayn caused with his stubbornness and self hatred, it's pretty appropriate to start again this way, making fun of each other like they were kids again.

It's not fixed yet, not by a long shot. There's a ways to go. But it's nice to eat breakfast like they used to at June's old wooden table in the kitchen, laughing over the baseball scores and the comics.  
  
It's nice.

  
  
***

  
It's been decided that Zayn will stay on Jamie's couch for the foreseeable future, since he has no where to stay and no belongings to speak of anymore, anything he ever owned somewhere lost in Harry's filth.  
  
So that night, after Zayn calls Dax and says he needs a few days, after Anthony picks up the stash he still has on him, to go sell in his place, they sit on Jamie's balcony, Zayn with a cigarette, Jamie with his phone as their flashlight.  
  
That's his story, at least, using his phone as a way of seeing on the darkened balcony. But Zayn has a feeling he's been texting and calling June all day, whenever Zayn goes to take a piss, or walk downstairs for a few minutes alone, to listen to the hoards of messages on his phone he ignored for so long, tears in his eyes, before forcing himself back into Jamie's line of sight. After he heard their voices, begging him to come home, to let them in, he has to know.  
  
"How is she?" he finally asks, blowing smoke up and over Jamie's head.  
  
"Better. Now."  
  
"How's she been?" he winces, fearing the answer, ashamed.  
  
"A fucking mess. She's been a fucking mess, Zayn. We both have. You don't… you don't get it, what it's like, when you disappear. You leave and we sit there like… frozen. We can't do anything, and you don't call us back, and we worry. We worry a lot."  
  
Zayn stares at him.  
  
"We just… we wanted to help you, I swear. The whole thing, the whole search for her, was supposed to help. We looked for a year, searched public records of anyone with the name Malik in LA County. And then it was tracking them down, calling, looking. When we found her, when we got her to open up and admit she was your mom, it was like… I could see the light at the end of the tunnel, you know?"  
  
Zayn feels his face getting hot.  
  
"It was either you meet her and get a new life, go off and be with your family, or you let us in, let us finally be there for you. We just wanted to help, either way. I swear," he shakes his head, looking down at his lap.  
  
"I appreciate it. I do," Zayn sniffs. "It's just, she showed up and offered a cup of coffee, to answer my questions. But she had to go, she said she didn't have a lot of time, you know? And I just knew, it would never… it would just be too hard. I couldn't do it. So I got pissed at you, and June, and I was a fucking asshole. I'm sorry."  
  
Jamie head snaps up to look at him, eyes wide, like he can't believe it.  
  
"Yes, J," Zayn rolls his eyes dramatically, "I just said I'm sorry. I am sorry. I, Zayn Malik, was a dick and I am sorry."  
  
Jamie cracks a smile eventually, and claps his hands in applause, because he likes to rub shit in.  
  
"Never thought I'd see the day, to be honest."  
  
"Fuck off," Zayn laughs.  
  
They sit in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, the cars down on the street rushing past, a dog barking off somewhere in the nearby neighborhood. Zayn's thoughts stray to Harry, because they tend to whenever he's silent and idle, and he wishes he could see him.  
  
Beneath all the pain he's felt over the years, the shining star, the light at the end of the dock, the one reprieve, has been Harry Styles. It's Harry's smile, his dancing, his fingers in Zayn's hair, the way he made Zayn laugh in bed when they came down.  
  
"How's Harry?"  
  
Now it's Zayn's turn to snap his head up, staring at Jamie, like he's seen a ghost.  
  
"I figured that's where you were," Jamie smiles, nodding at him. "The second he called me when you got hurt, the second you gave my number to someone and asked for help, I knew. You said he was no one, and that's the fuckin' lie of the century, I'm sure."  
  
Zayn stares at him, as Jamie nods, tells him to go on.  
  
"He's a mess. He's gone through so much shit, J. But he made me feel better, made me forget a lot, whenever I was with him."  
  
"That's good. To an extent," Jamie nods, contemplating. "But people aren't supposed to forget everything. We have memories for a reason, so we can keep them, hold on. You shouldn't have to forget everything. You shouldn't have to be high to get through the day."  
  
Jamie gives him the stern look Zayn knows really fucking well. Zayn stares back harder, looks at him, through him. He sees so many things as he stares at Jamie, his brother, his blood. He sees his home and his constant, someone he never fucking deserved, the one person who knows him inside and out, and he could honestly grab his face and kiss his cheek.  
  
"I'm gonna get my shit together," Zayn says finally. "I swear. I just… I gotta do some stuff first. Tie up my loose ends."  
  
"Okay," Jamie questions, nervous.  
  
"I'll be better. I'll do better. I just gotta fix some shit first. I'll call June tomorrow. I'll come for dinner. Promise."

"You better."

And because Zayn follows instructions when it matters, he nods. Because he will.

Jamie lets him go that night, lets him walk out the door with his hood up, but not before pulling him into a bone crushing hug. Zayn's almost positive he'll bruise from it, somewhere, as Jamie holds him tight. But Jamie needs it, has needed it for years it seems, so Zayn's holds him back, lets him have it.  
  
And at the end, before letting go, Zayn realizes he needed it just as badly, just as much, so he grips at Jamie's sweatshirt.

  
  
***

  
Zayn thinks about the cowboy as he makes his way to the club. He remembers how gross he felt looking at him, this stranger tugging on Harry's briefs, and what Harry told him after the fact. He was a lonely old guy with a dick for a partner, a guy who needed a dance to connect with someone physically every so often, a guy who asked a stripper to listen to him cry and wail about his problems.  
  
Harry listened, is the thing. He danced on his lap and took his money, sure. But just like Harry helped Zayn, Harry listened and helped everyone else.  
  
He dances because he thinks he needs it for himself, to feel alive and present, to feel hands on his skin, to keep him from floating away. But he also does it for other people, to make people feel good, _tell me where it hurts, babe,_ and Zayn could kick himself for not realizing it sooner.  
  
Harry needs Zayn, in his head, his apartment, his bed, to hold his hand and tell him he's safe. _You're mine. Yeah? Show me._  
  
He needs Zayn to turn off his music when it gets too loud, to learn how to make him eggs in the morning, to hold on tight. He needs Zayn because he's alone, and no one should be alone. He ran away, chased more money, but he needed Zayn to chase after him. _You found me, I'm so glad._

Zayn couldn't see it before, that sometimes someone lashing out in anger, might as well be someone screaming _don't leave_ , that for every push, there's a pull. He never knew that when someone gets mad at you, it could be because they love you.

He didn't know before, but he knows now, after he found a baseball card on the pavement and called his brother.  
  
When he gets to the club, Zayn makes his way straight to the bar, to his old spot to watch.  
  
Harry's already on stage, bouncing, to "No Church in the Wild," hands in his hair. He's in jeans, a backwards hat on his head, clearly a frat boy look, as the drunk guys below him dance along. It's like a whole new crowd tonight, only half paying attention to the guy on the stage, as they touch each other and move. Zayn wonders, amused, if the guys in the corner made bank tonight, because it seems like every single guy there is rolling on molly, touching and touching, Harry practically ignored.  
  
He doesn't seem to notice though, as the lights lower and he rolls his hips, hands on his dick, eyes closed.  
  
Zayn watches, looks on at his Harry, and he wants to touch, to hold him, grab him, shake him, tell him over and over until he hears it. _I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, I have a family, I'm not running away from them, or you, if you'll have me, I found you, I'm so glad, you helped me, let me help you._  
  
When Harry opens his eyes, when he comes to his senses, he looks down with a smirk, expecting the crowd to be staring back. Zayn sees it plain as day, the switch in his mind, on his face, as he realizes the men don't need him now, not tonight, not when they're rolling, just as high as he is, off, away, gone. They don't touch him, or hold on, or run their fingers along his legs. No one's yelling for him, grabbing at him, touching. He's on a stage by himself and no one's looking but Zayn.  
  
Harry shakes his head, looks down at them, stares intently, sweating.  
  
Zayn gets off his stool, his legs have a mind of their own, moving forward, his arm already out in front of him, reaching.  
  
And as the song ends and changes to a new one, as the crowd cheer together, touching, kissing, Harry sees him. They lock eyes and Harry's pupils are the size of pins, gone, too small, and Zayn tries to call for him.  
  
Harry shakes his head in anger, as he rips the hat off his head and disappears backstage.

  
  
***

  
Zayn should've known, is the thing. He should've fucking guessed. Because they're the same in so many ways, for so many reasons.  
  
It's hours later, when he's pacing outside the club, hands in his pockets, mind clear, when it finally occurs to him. He walks around the building and sees Harry's car is gone, that Harry must've snuck out, knew he'd be waiting, left before they could talk.  
  
Zayn should've known, is the thing.  
  
He should've called for Harry louder, should've shoved his way backstage, to see him, to grab him before he could run. He should've gone to Harry's apartment right after his dance, when he knew, he fucking knew, Harry would need him.  
  
Zayn should've known. Because Zayn's not stupid.  
  
When he gets to Harry's apartment, when he finally gets there, after what feels like hours, he runs to his door. He can't wait another minute.  
  
The door's open, unlocked like Harry was waiting for him, and he should've known.  
  
Because when Zayn walks into the apartment lit only by the small lamp by the bed and sees the long slope of Harry's bare back, the skin and muscle and freckles that lead to his ass, the ass he spanked so hard it turned as red as a tomato, he should've known. Harry didn't respond to him, to his voice as he said his name as he made his way to the bed.  
  
Zayn's seen it before, this kind of accident, and he should've known.  
  
He grabs Harry's shoulder, shakes him, sees the book fall from his hand. Harry doesn't respond. He doesn't move.  
  
He doesn't respond or move when Zayn turns him on his back, doesn't wake up, doesn't look up into his eyes, doesn't smile or laugh or cry or fly.  
  
Zayn's lungs constrict because Harry won't wake up, even as Zayn shakes him, hard, harder, yelling his name in his face. Harry won't wake up even when Zayn begs him.  
  
Zayn should've known.  
 


	6. Chapter 6

If you say a word so many times in row, over and over, it starts to sound less like a word and more like a sound. It's no longer letters strung together to create language, to express a thought or feeling, and instead becomes a noise, a tone, resonating in your mouth, around you, beside you.  
  
It's no longer a word, but a music note, a beat with a pulse, like the cry of an animal without mental capabilities, an animal that relies solely on feeling. Fight or flight, pain or pleasure, bad or good. Animals don't use language, but they communicate, and Zayn feels like a caged animal.  
  
 _Please, please, please, please, please, please._  
  
That's Zayn sound, the whimper, the plea, that falls from his lips over and over, like a dripping faucet, as he shakes at Harry, grabs his jaw, his shoulders, his face, his chest.  
  
 _Please, please, please, please, please, please._  
  
This wasn't on purpose, Zayn can tell. Harry didn't down a bottle of pills on purpose. He just wanted to fly, wanted to feel something in his gut, in his bones, before going to sleep. He wanted to soar and go someplace else, lay on his side with his hand tucked under his face to read a book, escape, before sleeping it off like normal. And because the world isn't a fair place, for whatever reason, for whatever purpose, it was too much, too fast, mixed with something else, and he slipped under. He became unconscious. He slipped away.  
  
 _Please, please, please, please, please, please._  
  
Zayn rushes to get Harry on his side again, facing him this time instead of the wall, tucks his leg and arm up, shaking him. If he's on his side, if his body can snap out of it, fight or flight this, reawaken and resurge, Zayn won't have to be alone again. Zayn keeps shaking him, slaps his face, the skin of his fingers snapping sharply against Harry's pale cheek, but it's not working. He's still breathing, weakly, the only thing Zayn can take comfort in, the fact that his lungs haven't given up, so he shakes him harder.  
  
 _Please, please, please, please, please, please._  
  
Zayn's head starts to throb, the longer Harry won't wake up, the longer it doesn't work. Zayn has seen this before, has seen people slip away on couches, in hot tubs even, in bedrooms just like this, and he's helped a few times, to bring them back. He's never been close to anyone though, never been this frantic, never sobbed his way through it, and he feels like he's on a delay, like it's taking him too long to remember what to do.  
  
Zayn shakes his head furiously, fumbles his way off the bed, grabs Harry around the torso and pulls. Harry's limp body slams into the floor, dead weight, head lolling to his shoulder, as Zayn holds him under his armpits and drags him to the bathroom. Zayn feels like he's about to lose it completely, but he forces himself to find strength, his muscles aching, Harry too heavy in his arms.

When he finally reaches the bathtub, he leans back to fall in first, heaves Harry up and over the side, the both of them tumbling into it, Zayn cracking the back of his skull against the porcelain, stars in his eyes. Harry's in between his legs, his back against Zayn's chest, and Zayn can still see him breathing. His lips aren't blue, his skin still pink and perfect, and Zayn cries again.  
  
He fumbles with the tap, finally gets a steady stream of warm water flowing from the shower head, soaking them both. It can't be too cold, Harry's body can't take the shock, but he needs to feel the water, the pressure of it beating against his skin, all over, as Zayn shakes him and whispers in his ear.  
  
 _Wake up, Harry. Come on. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up._  
  
Zayn reaches for his face, grabs at his jaw to open his mouth and shoves his entire hand in, as far as it'll go, forcing Harry's body to react.  
  
 _This is an intrusion, come on, feel it, feel my hand, force me out, get it out of your stomach, come on, come on, Harry._  
  
He moves his fingers, grabs for Harry's hair in the other hand.  
  
 _Wake up. Wake up. Please, please, please, please, please, please._  
  
The first movement comes from Harry's chest, his throat, as his body finally realizes what's going on, as his brain kicks back into gear. Harry gags on his fingers, his stomach lurches, Harry groans.  
  
 _Come on, get it out, come on, come on._  
  
He eventually vomits, not much, just bile and sticky residue from the pills, up and over Zayn's hand, down onto his own chest. Zayn tries to soothe him, tries to ease him through it, removing his hand eventually, as Harry gags over and over, stomach turning, body catching up, getting rid of the left over poison.  
  
Harry cries then, as he fully comes to, as his arms shake, moving, grabbing at Zayn's arms now around his chest holding him tight. He cries loudly, the sound echoing around them, wails, the water beating down on them. Zayn puts his face in Harry's neck, lets his lips rest against his warm skin, the skin he only minutes before was afraid to touch, for fear of it being cold, stiff, blue. Zayn sighs into him, holds him tighter.  
  
 _I got you, you're okay, we're right here, I got you._  
  
Harry can't stop crying. Zayn holds tighter.  
  
But then Zayn's worried, as they let the water rush over them, warm and steaming, Zayn's clothes sticking to his skin, Harry's bare chest under his hands, if he'll ever be able to say the word "please" without thinking of it as a sound, without thinking of Harry.  
  
He hopes he never has to beg it again.

  
  
***

  
There's nothing in the kitchen, which is hardly out of the ordinary, but once Zayn's moving random cans around in the pantry, he wishes he had bought something, anything, when he stayed here. There isn't coffee or tea, so Zayn settles for hot water in two mugs, shuffling back into the main room.  
  
As he steps around the stacks of boxes, the mess of Harry's stuff, he sees Harry sitting up on the bed, leaning against the wall, eyes drooping.  
  
"No sleeping," Zayn says, crawling up next to him.  
  
Zayn had helped Harry dry off, helped him put on a new pair of briefs, Harry's legs weak and dragging, before pulling on a pair of old sweats of Harry's, too big for him, almost slipping all the way off as he sits next to him against the wall  
  
"I know," Harry nods, eyes still heavy. "I won't, I promise."  
  
Zayn hands him a mug, blows on his own before taking a drink, the temperature hitting his tongue too fast. Harry's limbs look heavy, like it's too much work to move them, but he indulges Zayn, slowly brings his own mug up to his mouth and takes a small sip.  
  
Harry cried for what felt like hours as they lay in the tub earlier, under the warm water until it started to turn cold, and he wouldn't let Zayn let him go. He held Zayn's arms against his chest so forcefully, that as Zayn sits there now, he looks down and sees marks in his skin, Harry-shaped finger prints etched in his forearms, and he exhales.  
  
Zayn lets him close his eyes again, only for a few moments, before nudging his arm.  
  
"We have to stay awake. You can't sleep," Zayn sniffs, exhausted himself.  
  
"I know."  
  
"Let's talk. You wanna talk? Let's talk and stay awake," Zayn says in a low voice, reaching for his arm to hold on.  
  
"What should we talk about?" Harry looks up at him, eyes tired, face blank.  
  
"Whatever you want."  
  
Harry blinks, slowly, stares at him.  
  
"I can talk. If you want," Zayn whispers, gripping his hand now, lacing their fingers together.  
  
Harry nods.  
  
"I don't think I've ever been more scared in my entire life, than when I walked in and you weren't moving," Zayn grips his mug tighter, looking away towards Harry's stuff. "I reached for you and you didn't move, and I think it was the worst thing I've ever seen."  
  
Zayn takes a breath, readies himself to keep talking, to say anything and everything to keep Harry engaged, awake, with him. But Harry speaks, surprising them both.  
  
"I killed my family," Harry whispers, as Zayn looks to him again, eyes wide. "I killed my whole family, and I had to look behind me and see my dad and my sister dead. They didn't even find my mom for twenty minutes because she was ejected from the car. So… I know how that feels. To break, when you see a person, lifeless."  
  
Zayn feels like he's been punched in the face.  
  
"So… I'm sorry. I'm sorry it was bad for you. To see," Harry says, voice shaking, gripping Zayn's hand tighter. "I didn't do this on purpose. I swear. I just… I wanted to sleep. I wanted to forget."  
  
Zayn nods. He figured as much.  
  
"You didn't kill your family. You know that, right? That it wasn't because of you?"  
  
Harry sniffs, tries to clear his throat.  
  
"Yeah, I think I know deep down… But it still feels like it was me. It's just… some days that thought gets too loud, like it's the loudest thing I'll ever think, and I can't shut it up. I think it constantly. That I ruin people."  
  
Zayn stares at him. _You don't ruin people. See? I'm proof. I'm right here._  
  
"Why did you leave the club? Why did you leave me? I went to find you," Zayn continues, searching.  
  
Harry looks away. He scratches at his thigh, his nails digging in.  
  
"I was so mad," Harry sniffs. "I was so mad at you. For not wanting the people in your life, for pushing them away. And then I danced, did the thing that lets me feel something, and it was bad. It was a bad night. I didn't want to see you."  
  
"I wanted to tell you, though. I called Jamie, I fixed it, I swear," Zayn says, practically pleading for Harry to understand.  
  
Harry turns to him again, eyes searching.  
  
"I called Jamie and he found me. He picked me up, like he always does, but this time… this time was different. I just realized, you helped me realize, how fucking stupid it is to think I'm alone when I'm not. I'm not alone, I never was, and neither are you. Not anymore."  
  
Harry's eyes widen, his lip begins to shake, as Zayn stares at him, hard, trying to send a message.  
  
 _Do you believe me? You have to believe me._  
  
 _I can try._  
  
Zayn leans in and kisses him, kisses him hard and deep, forces Harry to feel it. He pulls back and it's like that time in the club when it all rushed out of him, but this time, he's sober and his mind is clear.  
  
"Please don't make me leave. Don't run away again. You're mine, remember? Remember when I said it that first time, and it was so good, we felt it then, right? I like it here, and you like me here. I found you and you found me. Don't make me leave."  
  
Harry kisses him then, pushes against Zayn's pull, a kiss to match a kiss, to show Zayn he feels it.  
  
They feel it at the same time, that kiss. They feel Zayn's desperation to stay, Harry's desperation for Zayn to never leave.  
  
Zayn thinks, as his fingers tighten on both his mug and Harry's hand, that he's definitely landed. And even if Harry hasn't just yet, if he needs a little more time, he'll land eventually, too.

  
  
***

  
That night, Zayn hears all about Harry's family.  
  
Gemma was smart, so smart, worldly, sassy. She could tell jokes that had people rolling on the floor, even if they've heard the joke once before. She used to dye her hair about a million different colors for fun, to see which looked best. Harry liked her natural color best, dark like his, like their mom's. She was never mean to Harry, which was perplexing to so many family friends, that the Styles kids actually got along. Gemma used to shove people out of the way when Harry had a new trick, a dance to show off, a cartwheel. She physically moved people to let Harry shine, and Harry always loved that about her.  
  
Anne wore so many rings and earrings, she always made sounds when she walked into a room. Harry always knew when she was making dinner instead of Robin, because it was like she had jingle bells around her wrists, had a theme song, as she cooked. She used to knit, loved her sowing machine, taught Gemma everything she knew, and even showed Harry a few things. To this day, Harry can knit a mean scarf.  
  
Robin helped Harry fix up his car, his vintage car they found through Craigslist, which made Zayn snort a laugh, because Jamie's car was from Craigslist, too. Robin taught Harry how to change a tire, how to take care of something big, how to drive it, how to be a man. He was never their step dad, not really, because he bragged about his kids, his Gemma and his Harry, to anyone who would listen. Even after they died, when their debts came to light, when all the money and major possessions went to the banks, Harry knew Robin tried his hardest to make their family happy.  
  
Harry gestures around the room, to the boxes, the stuff of his family, the things he's held so tight, as he tells Zayn every story he can think of. They vacationed in Yellowstone one year, and a bear honest to god chased them from their camp ground. Harry clutches his stomach at he recounts the tale, Gemma screaming her head off, Harry tugging up his shorts because he was taking a piss behind a bush when it happened. They went to New York every year, did a tour in Greece just six months before they died, and it's still Harry's favorite place.  
  
Zayn holds his hand through all of it, his thumb running against the back of it, even when Harry gets emotional and cries a few times. He lets Harry talk, lets him go off and soar without the help of a pill, lets him fly in his head, memory after memory tumbling out.  
  
And when Harry looks at him, eyes wide and open, wet and pleading, Zayn takes over.  
  
He tells Harry all about June and Jamie, his J's, the people who took care of him and helped him grow up. He explains his early life, the memories he's forgotten because they were never important, how his life started when he got dropped off at June's that fateful day. He tells Harry about riding the trains the first time to the beach, the adventures Jamie used to help him navigate, the Dodger games, the birthdays they celebrated together, the cakes June made.  
  
It should be sad, the stories Zayn tells, because his life was never as joyous or as grand as Harry's. But as he hears himself lay it out, the time he spent with his family, the ways in which he was shaped because of them, he smiles. His life isn't sad, not really. And Harry must see that, because he smiles with him.  
  
When he gets to Trisha, to the day she showed up at his door, Zayn hangs his head. Because she offered coffee, she offered a conversation, and he turned it down. He sent her away. Because he's a coward and he was so afraid of what she'd say, that he really was trash, forgotten, a mistake, and he couldn't handle it. He couldn't handle any of it, until he was in Harry's shower, with Harry's hands in his hair, taking care of him.  
  
Harry holds his hand harder.  
  
When the sun starts to come up, when lights begins to stream through the windows across from the bed, they realize at the same time that they made it, that they didn't sleep and Harry's fine.  
  
Zayn looks at him, runs his his finger against the scar on Harry's eyebrow, the scar from the accident, the scar that goes with the small ones across his chest from the glass, and he nods. Because he's telling Harry, again, that it wasn't his fault, that his scars weren't self inflicted, just like the pills tonight weren't, and Harry nods back. He leans into Zayn, against his side, and maybe he's telling Zayn he's not trash, he never was, regardless of Trisha or his fear of what she'd say.  
  
They feel it at the same time.  
  
Zayn kisses his forehead and sighs.  
  
"I don't think we should fly anymore," he whispers.  
  
Harry nods, exhales.  
  
"I don't think we should either."  
  
"It's not going to be fun. It's probably going to be really, really hard."  
  
"I figured."  
  
They stare at each other, nodding. They're ready. They'll do it together. The come down, the withdrawal, the pain sure to follow.  
  
Their final kiss of the night, as the sun fully rises around them, is a small one. It's sweet. Simple. They breathe through it, together, and hold on.

  
  
***

  
_"Hey J. I think you're working. You're probably working. I think. But I wanted to call you, and I'll call June too, to tell you… I need some time before I come back for good. I just… I need to get my shit together, you know? I can't come back to you both as fucked up as I am. I need to come down. I need to get off it, all of it, for real, for good. And it's going to fucking blow, it's going to be really shitty, and I'll be in pain and I'll probably be a dick. But I'm doing it. I'm doing it for me, but I'm doing it for you guys, too. I promise. So… I need a rain check on that dinner. Thanks for everything, for finding me again and letting me see it all, clearly, for real. I'll talk to you soon, yeah? I'll talk to you soon."_

  
  
***

  
  
Zayn readies them as best he can, by first talking to Dax.  
  
Dax seems receptive, relieved even, when Zayn tells him he wants out for good, to get away from the drugs and the pills, leave him and the garage behind once and for all. He nods as Zayn explains the ways in which he fell, the nights he thought he wouldn't get up, the times he thought it might be for the best, and how he doesn't want to be that person anymore. He wants out from under it, from the pain he's inflicted on himself and his family, the family he needs to show he'll stick around for.  
  
He also tells Dax about Harry, his Harry, and how he has to do it for him, as well.  
  
After they hug it out, after Dax claps him on the shoulder, right as Zayn turns to leave, Dax pulls him back. Zayn doesn't understand why, until he looks down and sees the stuffed envelope in his hand.  
  
"I can't take that," Zayn rushes out, shaking his head.  
  
"Yes you can."  
  
"D, I wasted so much product when I went off the deep end, I fucked you over. I can't take your money."  
  
"Yes Zayn, you can. And you will. Because I have money to give you, money I've saved, and I want you to have it so you can do this the right way."  
  
He nods at Zayn and hands it over.  
  
Zayn hugs him again even harder.

  
  
***

  
Harry tells the club he'll be gone for a few weeks, empties the half full music box pill by pill into the toilet and the dumpster in the alley, and shuts his closet doors. He gets into bed and waits.  
  
Zayn pays the rent, stocks up the kitchen, and stuffs the rest of the cash into a box under the bed. He crawls in next to Harry and waits.  
  
They lay next to each other, naked, in Harry's bed that night and wait it out together, the inevitable come down, the withdrawal symptoms, the suffering sure to follow. Everything they've taken, the pills to fly, the coke, the alcohol, it's nothing compared to the Oxy. They had told each other in hushed voices that they were the same: once they started using, once they both got on Oxy pretty heavily, they've never been off it, never even tried. Neither of them have ever experienced the fall yet, and they're about to, at the same time, together, as their systems cleanse it out.  
  
"I'm scared," Harry whispers, holding Zayn's hand tighter.  
  
If there's anything Zayn has learned since they met, it's that while Harry is honest to a fault, he also says a lot without saying much of anything. Harry's scared of what his body is about to put him through, but he's scared of a lot more than that.  
  
"If I get mean, don't make me leave. And if you get mean, I won't leave," Zayn assures him, reading between the lines.  
  
"Deal."  
  
"Deal."  
  
Zayn grips his hand tighter, tethering them together, holding Harry down so he doesn't float away or disappear. That's another thing Zayn's learned: they're alike in that they each need a hand, a tight grip, to keep them safe.  
  
Harry exhales sharply, as the apartment gets darker around them.  
  
Zayn needs to take their minds off it, needs to make them feel good while they still can, before it all hurts too much. So he decides and swiftly rolls over onto Harry, settling across his thighs, grabbing his hair.  
  
"Can I make you feel better?" he whispers against Harry's mouth, licking his lip.  
  
"Yeah," Harry bites at Zayn's mouth, eyes closing.  
  
"I'm not gonna hurt you, okay? I can't hurt you," Zayn licks up his neck to his ear, huffing against his skin.  
  
"I know, I know. I just…" Harry whines, as Zayn grinds their hardening cocks together. "I just always need to feel it, I need it to be hard, I need… I need it."  
  
"I'm right here."  
  
And with that, Zayn shifts his legs, gets leverage to slide against Harry's body, to create that friction they both need, to set their skin on fire. He bites Harry's neck, brings a hand up to pinch at his nipple, because even if he can't hurt Harry for real, can't put a hand on him to make it hurt, he can still tease, give him a taste.  
  
Harry whines as his nipple hardens between Zayn's fingers, as his teeth find his earlobe. Zayn feels Harry's nails digging into his back, from his waist to his shoulders,  a deep scratch, leaving marks, and maybe Zayn likes to feel it too, because he groans.  
  
Harry brings his legs up as Zayn kisses across his neck, as he throws his head back, chin towards the ceiling, and wraps them around Zayn's hips. He holds tight, uses his strong thighs to bring them closer and Zayn feels out of breath with it. He pinches at Harry's other nipple, bites his other ear, and he feels Harry leaking onto his cock, smearing up his stomach.  
  
He wants Harry every which way, every way they can, before nothing feels good, before it gets too overwhelming, so he leans back.  
  
"How do you want it?"  
  
Harry takes a second to come back, to slowly open his eyes and look at him.  
  
"You like me from the back, right? You like seeing my ass," Harry whispers with a small smile, the smile Zayn wants to eat right off his face.  
  
And in no time at all, Harry's flipped on his stomach, Zayn's hand running down his spine, over the ridges of bone and muscle, as Harry rubs off on the mattress, chasing the pressure of it.  
  
"You look so good," Zayn huffs, fingers traveling from his neck to his ass, from his ass to neck, over and over.  
  
"Tell me," Harry whines.  
  
"The first dance, that first night, when you wore that fucking American flag thong, do you remember? I thought about what you'd be like, if I could be with you, if I could have you on top of me," Zayn says, pulling his ass apart in his hands, palms hot on his skin, fingers pressing in. "I wanted you then, and I want you now."  
  
Harry groans, sound muffled in the sheets, face pressed into the bed.  
  
"I'm gonna make you feel good," Zayn pants, as he stares down at Harry's ass in his hands, his thumb running over his entrance, Harry shivering. "I'm gonna make it feel good and it's not gonna hurt, okay? It doesn't have to hurt."  
  
"Okay," Harry says into the bed.  
  
And as Zayn leans over his back, as he kisses up his spine, each time his lips touch Harry's skin, he feels higher. He feels like he's flying, like he won't be coming down any time soon, and that thought, more than anything else, is what makes him smile in anticipation.  
  
Maybe Harry feels the same way because Zayn sees him nodding, head bobbing, into the mattress, breath quickening.  
  
Zayn leans back and gets behind him, runs his thumb over him again, feels the twitch of his muscle and he smiles. He lays his tongue flat against him first, lets Harry feel the wetness, the tease, as he runs a finger along the skin behind his balls, that skin Zayn's pretty sure he could camp out on for the rest of his fucking life.  
  
Harry huffs out a breath, a harsh exhale, as Zayn moves his tongue side to side, still flat, Harry's ring of muscle at his mercy. He laps at him, tastes him, spreads him further and Harry breathes through it, unmoving.  
  
But Zayn wants him to move.  
  
"Push back, babe," Zayn says against him, right where he's wet and fluttering against Zayn's mouth.  
  
Harry groans and does as he's told, he moves slightly, shoves his ass back as Zayn's face, and Zayn feels his own cock jump between his legs.  
  
"There you go," Zayn continues, speaking into his skin. "So good, babe. You're so good."  
  
Zayn licks him in broad strokes again, Harry pushing back at him, and Zayn wonders if next time, maybe Harry will want to ride his face and set the pace himself. He thinks they'd like that. But for now, he straightens his tongue and breeches the soft skin there, deepens it, breathes through his mouth as he licks into Harry.  
  
"Fuck," Harry huffs, fingers clenching the sheets.  
  
Zayn feels him clenching around his tongue and his eyes almost roll back, it's so good. Harry lets him in, lets his tongue do all the work, as he swirls it in a circle, tastes him from the inside, fingers still digging into Harry's ass. His neck aches a little, an ache he's sure he'll regret later, so he leans back and sits on his knees to look at his dirty work.  
  
Harry, on all fours, ass fluttering as Zayn strokes him with a finger, is probably the best thing Zayn has ever seen.  
  
"Fuck," he mirrors Harry, staring.  
  
He takes a chance and inserts two fingers in, just a little, just another tease, as Harry cries out into the bed again. And as a last treat, Zayn leans back in and scissors his fingers, licking between them, tongue feeling the fucking delicious stretch.  
  
"Zayn," Harry cries, really truly cries, as his legs begin to shake. "Zayn, Zayn, Zayn."  
  
Zayn groans into him, his tongue and fingers shifting in, further, deeper, as Harry takes it. Harry pounds his fists against the mattress, once, twice, and suddenly he's coming. Zayn's so surprised, so caught off guard, he almost stops what he's doing to watch, when he remembers he has to work Harry through it. So he widens his fingers, shoves his tongue in between them further and groans as forcefully as he can.  
  
Harry comes, string after string, across his stomach, on the sheets, and Zayn hears the tears behind his voice.  
  
"Babe," he whines, voice still wet.  
  
Zayn leans back, slips his fingers out, as Harry pants beneath him, legs still shaking. He bites at Harry's ass, once, before gripping his poor cock in his right hand, hell bent on coming as quickly as he can, because he's fucking dying with it now.  
  
"No, no, come on," Harry begs, which Zayn doesn't understand.  
  
"What?" Zayn pants, stroking himself faster.  
  
"Fuck me, come on," Harry whines, turning his head to look back at Zayn for a second.  
  
"But," Zayn starts, wondering how Harry can possibly take him so soon, now, after just coming, after losing his mind, untouched.  
  
"It doesn't have to hurt, Zayn. But you can push me. _Push me,_ " Harry says harsher, shoving his ass back at him.  
  
And because Zayn gets him, they get each other, he does. He really fucking does.  
  
Zayn scrambles to grab the lube from between the mattresses and slicks himself up, before Harry can come down completely, before he loses this high he's on, the high Zayn will let him chase every single night, if he needs it.  
  
"You're fucking beautiful," Zayn whispers as he lines himself up, cock twitching in his hand, resting against Harry's already wet hole.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You gonna make me come again? Make me feel it?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Zayn runs the tip against Harry, savors the sensation, before speaking again.  
  
"You're so open already, fuck," he huffs as he catches on Harry's rim, as Harry relaxes, as he instinctively pushes back at Zayn and unclenches all at once, open, grasping at air.  
  
Zayn groans, as Harry sighs, as his ass flutters, opens up for him, waiting. So he finally pushes in, pushes against Harry's pull, slips into him, a long groan escaping before he can stop it. Harry curses, spit flying from his mouth, as Zayn sinks into him.  
  
Harry must be sensitive, exhausted, completely spent, but he keeps at it, pushes back with every ounce of strength he has, as Zayn slams into him, their skin smacking, wet and fast.  
  
Zayn feels Harry clenching around him, feels it from his cock to his eyeballs, that heat, the swirl in his stomach catching up to him too fast.  
  
"M'gonna come," he gasps, fingers digging into Harry's hips.  
  
"In me, do it in me," Harry groans into the mattress, muffled, barely speaking English.  
  
But Zayn focuses his attention on Harry, reaching for him, grabbing his cock in his hand as Harry hisses, his voice cracking on another sound Zayn can't recognize, a guttural sound, like an animal, as he pumps him in time with his thrusts. If Harry wants to feel it, he'll feel this.  
  
He gets out one final _fuck, babe,_ before snapping his hips once, burying himself deep, so deep, nutting into Harry like he was born for it.  
  
Harry cries again, Zayn hears the wetness in his voice for a second time, as Harry comes in his hand, weakly, just a few spurts of come, before collapsing. Zayn doesn't even pull out, because Harry's body does it for him, falls onto the bed before Zayn can follow, his cock slipping out faster than he would've liked. Harry hisses at the sensation, and that's the last thing Zayn hears over the buzzing in his ears and Harry's face pressed into a pillow.  
  
Zayn stays on his knees, chest heaving, as he tries to control his heart rate. He's thankful for this, tries to hold onto this high, this euphoria they made together, before it gets bad. He tries to hold onto it like smoke, as the room settles, as they come down.  
  
But before he can clean them up, before he lets it go, he can't help himself. As Harry breathes beneath him, body in shambles, Zayn reaches for him and spreads his ass, just for a peek, to see Harry's entrance pink and wet and so used, still clenching slightly, Harry groaning from the movement.  
  
"S'good, babe. You're good," he whispers, finger tip touching him lightly, just to feel the aftermath. His come seeps out, slowly, a trickle, over his finger, down down down, and he could watch all night.  
  
Harry squirms beneath him, it's too much.  
  
So Zayn sits back, brings his hands back to himself, as Harry sighs and shifts, turns his head to look at him.  
  
"I love you?" Harry says, like it's a question.  
  
And as Zayn leans down with a tshirt to clean them up, running it along Harry's ass, his back, his legs, he smiles. Because it's not a question, and Harry doesn't mean it as one. Zayn's getting better at reading between the lines now, and he's proud of himself, for knowing Harry needs the reassurance, especially in this moment. He's learned, from June and Jamie and Dax and himself and now Harry, that affection comes through in a myriad of ways.  
  
So now, with a tshirt running across his back, before they settle in to finally come down, Zayn needs to remind him.  
  
"You do," Zayn nods. "And I love you."  
  
Afterwards, they lay together and wait.

  
  
***

  
The first day isn't great, but it's not terrible. As they both come down, as their bodies realize they'll be without a hit, they sleep. They sleep for hours and hours, wrapped up together in Harry's bed, tangled in sheets.  
  
Days two and three are worse. They sleep through most of it, try and drink as much water as they can, but it's too hot. It's hot in the apartment, stifling, and they sweat buckets. Cold showers don't help, laying on the cold kitchen tiles for awhile doesn't help either, and it feels like they're falling.  
  
Days four, five, and six are even worse. Harry shakes, his body tremors as he sweats, and he cries for most of it. _My bones hurt, I don't like it. My knees and my elbows and my jaw, it hurts, Zayn._ The sounds of his crying make Zayn hold his hands over his ears, because he wants to cry too, but he can't, because the moisture from his body refuses to leave through his eyes, and instead pours out from his chest and torso, sweating, it's too hot. He pukes through most of day six, and Harry can't look at him.  
  
On day seven, Zayn wakes up with a runny nose and blood shot eyes, still exhausted and nauseous, but the sun looks pretty as it rises, which he appreciates. It surprises him, that small thought, looking at something outside and finding it to be pleasant, so he drinks water and sets a glass next to the bed for Harry. Harry tosses and turns, still, every night, and Zayn wishes he could help.  
  
That night, after their bodies stop shaking so hard, Zayn makes them soup and they eat it.  
  
Day eight is a fighting day. Zayn feels like his eyes bug out of his head as he screams at Harry, that it fucking hurts for him too, that it's not easy for him either, as Harry screams in his face to move out of his way. They yell back and forth, faces red, panting, as they shake through it. Harry shoves at Zayn and locks himself in the bathroom for a few hours, as Zayn paces the kitchen and pulls at his hair.  
  
But he doesn't leave, and Harry doesn't ask him to. When they finally fall asleep at three in the morning, Zayn holds Harry against his chest and tries to warm him up, Harry's body cold.  
  
Days nine and ten, they fight again, more yelling, but they don't shake as hard. They hug a little. Split a sandwich. Shower together, Zayn's hands working through Harry's messy hair, even though his knuckles ache. Harry washes his back, kneads his shoulders in his hands, and Zayn cries again.  
  
They spend two more weeks in the apartment, day after day, week after week, and it's fucking terrible. They sweat it out, cry, puke, suck the poison out ounce by ounce, until one morning Zayn wakes up and Harry's staring at him.  
  
"I think there are waffles in the freezer," he whispers, cracked lips ghosting across Zayn's forehead.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"They might be gross. Old, or whatever. But I'll make those?"  
  
Zayn kisses his cheek.  
  
"You need help?"  
  
"No, I got it," Harry sighs, before tumbling off the bed rather ungracefully, making his way to the kitchen.  
  
They eat waffles on two armchairs near the windows, in their briefs, bags under their eyes, and it doesn't hurt so bad anymore.  
  
A few more days and it doesn't hurt at all.

  
  
***

  
_"I'm proud of you, Zayn. I'm so proud of you. When you hear this, just remember that. And tell Harry I say hello and I can't wait to meet him. Be safe. I'll see you soon."_

  
  
***

  
It's a strange thing, not being alone.  
  
That's the thought that plagues him their entire detox locked inside, that it's strange to be with someone, next to someone, relying on another human being and seeing them rely on you to a fault. Because they're not alone, and they both know it.  
  
Zayn can tell because at a certain point, one day, even through their crying and anger and body tremors, Harry opens his closet. He opens the doors, throws them wide, and stares at his pictures with Zayn next to him. Zayn stands with him, or behind him, holding him close, and sometimes Harry gets upset, but other times he just looks and lets Zayn participate. He tells Zayn more stories, things they did as a family, the ways Gemma used to sing through the house, Anne's recipes, Robin's life lessons.  
  
Harry must be able to tell as well, because when Zayn listens to his messages, when his face does that thing where he gets intense and fond all at once, Zayn lets Harry lay next to him, as he gets close to the phone so he can listen along. They listen to Jamie's voice, telling him the scores, explaining a trade deal with the Astros, laughing about something his girlfriend told him, and Zayn smiles. When June's voice rings through the apartment, when they lay together and listen to her talk about the kids she's had staying with her, two little boys a lot like Jamie and Zayn, more trouble than they're worth with the train routes drawn on their hands, Harry kisses him.  
  
At the end of it, once the pain subsides and their eyes stop aching, Zayn looks around at Harry's apartment, the apartment he's come to know, and he knows what they need to do.  
  
At the end of it, once the sheets are changed and their bodies stop shaking, Harry looks around at Zayn standing in his apartment, sees his shoulders hunched slightly, and he knows what they need to do, as well.  
  
So they make a list.

  
  
***

  
When they emerge, they get in the car, holding hands, wind in their hair. Zayn feels his body reawaken, like a newborn, like he's eleven, on the cusp of something bigger and better, like his world is starting up again. He closes his eyes and lets the sun hit his face, squeezes Harry's fingers, as they fly down the freeway to check off the things on their to-do list, the list Zayn has crumpled in his pocket.  
  
Harry quits the club for good.  
  
Zayn gives Dax one last hug and another thank you for the money to tide them over.  
  
And on the drive to June's, Harry inhales and exhales, as Zayn stares at him, willing him to relax, to be fine. Harry stares at him for a few seconds, before turning back to the road, to get them there safely.  
  
The walk up to the door is a tense one, Harry nervous.  
  
"Relax, babe. You'll be fine," Zayn whispers.  
  
"They're your family, Zayn. This has to be good," Harry hisses.  
  
June opens the door before they reach it, wearing her ratty blue jeans and beige sweater, hair in a messy brain sliding over her shoulder, smiling with tears in her eyes. Zayn realizes, as he steps forward, as Harry hangs back, that this is the first time he's seen June in a long time. It's the first time she's seen his face in months, since he stormed in the living room and screamed at her, and the first time in years that she's seen him clean.  
  
He feels his face get hot, feels his lip beginning to shake, as she smiles at him.  
  
"Zayn," she says simply, holding her arms out.  
  
He falls against her so fast, falls into her, as she holds him. June runs her hand though his hair, like she used to when he was sick, and shushes him in his ear, knows he's going to cry before he actually does.  
  
"I'm sorry," he whispers.  
  
"Me too," she whispers in return. "I didn't mean to spring her on you, I promise. I just wanted you to be happy, love."  
  
"I am. I always was. I just needed to remember, s'all."  
  
June shushes him again, lets him get it out, the tears he's been saving for her.  
  
And just when he feels like he could hug her all day, he feels the small tug on the back pocket of his jeans, feels Harry's index finger holding on.  
  
Zayn steps back as he wipes at his face and turns.  
  
"J, this is Harry," he sniffs, nodding for Harry to walk forward.  
  
"Harry," she says simply again, holding her arms out for him.  
  
Harry looks at Zayn, and then at June, and then he too falls, lets June catch him in a hug, her hand in his hair, shushing in his ear. She whispers something to him, and Zayn sees him nod furiously against her shoulder, body shifting slightly closer.  
  
June tugs Harry by the hand after that, pulls him inside as Zayn follows, still too overwhelmed and emotional to say much else.

Zayn lets June fuss over him, lets her pat at his wild hair, lets her feed them lunch at the wooden table in the kitchen, as she asks about Harry.  
  
Harry's honest, says he's been out of it for a while, but he's on his way back. June nods, understands, and asks him where he comes from. Harry's face lights up when he talks about his family, the family that aren't here anymore. They were great people, the ones who raised him.  
  
Zayn squeezes his fingers under the table.  
  
He doesn't even realize Jamie's there until he feels the pressure on his shoulders, the pain of Jamie's thumbs digging into his neck. _I'm glad you're here._  
  
They spend another hour talking on the back porch, as the east LA sounds swirl around them, kids playing in the street, mothers cooking for their families, a dog barking in the distance. Jamie gets tears in his eyes from laughter, when he tells Harry about the time Zayn got caught coming through the backdoor, drunk after a party in high school, to see June sitting in the dark. He almost pissed his pants, Jamie swears it, so Zayn punches him in the thigh, hard like he used to, to give him a charley horse.

Harry laughs with Jamie and looks at Zayn with a fond expression, and Zayn's almost positive the two of them will gang up on him from here on out. He doesn't look forward to _that_ so much.  
  
When they leave, when they start saying their goodbyes, Zayn clutches their to-do list and watches as Jamie hugs Harry and speaks in a low voice in his ear. He wants to listen, to hear the secret, when June grabs him instead.  
  
"So you know the way, right?"  
  
"Yeah, put it in my phone," Zayn nods, looking to his feet.  
  
"She knows when to meet you at the restaurant, I made sure she knew the time," June says, picking a piece of lint from his shirt. "You just… you ask her any questions you may have. See if she can answer them, if she can explain things. And then… call me, if you need to. Afterwards."  
  
Zayn stares at her, sees the apprehension in her eyes.  
  
"She's not my mom," Zayn holds her wrist. "She never was. I just gotta tie up the loose end, J. And then I'll come home."  
  
She kisses his cheek and steers him away, with a small smile.  
  
"Be safe. Be good."

  
  
***

  
Zayn Malik, without fail, always does as he's told.  
  
The drive to the meeting point halfway between Los Angeles and Barstow is a safe one, but it's quiet. Zayn folds the list in his hand over and over, the second-to-last thing about to be crossed off.  
  
Harry tends to drive erratically, like he's nervous for impending doom, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. And every so often, when he brakes or a cloud shifts and sends a weird shadow across them, he'll throw his arm out and hold Zayn's chest.  
  
Zayn always holds him back, always grounds him by holding his hand tightly. Sometimes he even pulls Harry's hand up to his mouth, to bite at the skin of Harry's index finger, the thing Harry does when he's anxious, and it makes him laugh every time.  
  
Trisha's already in a booth when they arrive, after Harry had to bite Zayn's neck and shoved him out of the car. She sits with a cup of coffee, her rings glinting in the light, as they slide in across from her, nervous.  
  
"Hi Zayn," she smiles softly.  
  
"Hi," he nods.  
  
They stare at each other a beat too long, taking in faces, eyes, movements, all over again. She's so pretty, Zayn thinks, young and bright and really pretty.  
  
"I'm Harry," Harry offers, clears his throat, extends his hand.  
  
They shake hands, and Zayn's a little jealous, that Harry gets to touch her when he doesn't know if he should, how he could, without it being weird or awkward. The last time his mother touched him, a hand in his hand, he was, admittedly, pretty fucked up. He wishes he could have it again.  
  
Trisha reads his mind, because she reaches out and grabs his arm. Zayn feels her shaking.  
  
They stare at each other, Harry looking out the window, as a waitress sets coffee in front of them. It's pleasant, quiet, contained. Zayn can't look away from her now, now that he gets to be in her presence again, this real person who gave birth to him and gave him his name.  
  
"June said you might have questions," she finally says, with a small smile. _You can ask me anything._  
  
Harry holds Zayn's thigh under the table, applies pressure.  
  
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, just a few, I guess," he clears his throat, nodding.  
  
"I hope I can help."  
  
"Uh," Zayn starts, eyes screwed up. "I just… I wondered how I… how I'm here. Or like, how you… why you didn't keep me."  
  
Zayn feels his words tumbling out, sees them fall out of his mouth and he wants to suck them back in so he can form a better sentence. It feels like he's losing it, like the control he wants to hold on to, is falling to the wayside.  
  
But Trisha grips his arm again.  
  
"I was fifteen," she says quietly, as Zayn's eyes snap up to hers, wide. "I was fifteen and scared, and I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't keep you. I needed you to be safe, needed to know you were going somewhere better. So… so I had you, my cousin helped me that night, and then… I brought you to the hospital, in a little blanket, and it had ducks on it?"  
  
They see her eyes well up. Harry's grip on his leg tightens.  
  
"I just… I wanted you to have my name, at least. Since I couldn't keep you. So I wrote it down, with your birth date, and made sure they'd see it when they unwrapped you. I should've said more, I should've given you something, a note, a letter, something. But… I was just a kid, I didn't realize, I didn't know how."  
  
Zayn stares at her as she shakes her head.  
  
"Where's my dad?"  
  
"He's… I'm not sure. He was young, too. Too young."  
  
They sit in silence for a few minutes, as Zayn feels the clenching in his stomach lessen slightly. He can see a fifteen year old girl giving birth to a baby, a baby she thought she was doing a favor by giving him away, and she wanted him to have her name.  
  
Zayn's just about to exhale, to let it out, the pain and the suffering he went through, because Trisha didn't know any better. And he found his family, eventually.  
  
"Zayn."  
  
He looks up at her.  
  
"I wanted to keep you. And I've thought about you every day since," she whispers, now holding his hand. "I'm sorry. And I hope… I hope you're happy. And I hope you and your family, I hope you're all happy."  
  
Zayn holds her hand back, squeezes it in his, and he smiles.  
  
Trisha isn't his mom, she never really was, and sitting here with her, he realizes that's okay. Because he has a family, a good one, one waiting for him back on Hendricks Avenue. So when they stand up to leave, when Trisha hugs him and cries into his shoulder, he runs his hand through her hair a little and shushes her in her ear.  
  
They decide to part ways without a promise of future contact. Zayn's sure, on some level, that maybe some day he'll want to call her, maybe send a letter, see how she is, ask about her life. And maybe she'll call him, or show up at his door, asking about his life. But who knows when that'll be, and Zayn doesn't worry if it doesn't happen, because he told June he'd be home soon.  
  
Harry holds his face in his hands afterwards, as he leans on Zayn against the car. He kisses him, slowly, runs his tongue along his bottom lip like he's trying to memorize it, like he's trying to hold him together, and Zayn kisses him back.  
  
They don't exactly fly anymore, but sometimes when they're together in these moments, Zayn _swears_ they're not standing still, standing on the ground, standing at all.

  
  
***

  
The last thing to check off the list, the final thing they both need to fix themselves, to rid the poison, to rid the temptation of soaring on pills, stares at them like a mountain they're about to climb.  
  
Zayn takes in Harry's apartment, the one big room full of stuff, and he wonders how to even start.  
  
Harry started to cry the second they crossed the threshold with packing tape and more boxes, so Zayn isn't surprised to see the tears falling as they take it in.  
  
"We're not throwing it away, babe," Zayn whispers, grabbing his shoulder. "We're not getting rid of anything, or giving it away, or erasing them like they never existed. We're just… moving it around some, yeah?"  
  
"Yeah," Harry huffs, bringing his hands to his hips. "Yeah."  
  
So that's exactly what they do.  
  
They pack up the books and board games, the coats and sweaters Harry swears still smell like Anne, the CDs and random lamps on random shelves, and put them away. They take the pain and suffering Harry's been surrounding himself with, hiding behind, dealing with, and they stack it in piles near the door. The chairs get moved to be near the windows, the shelves get taken down, the pictures from inside the closet get put into a photo box, something with flowers on the sides that Zayn swears is grotesque and Harry swears is sweet.  
  
It takes hours, to move and shift and gather all of Harry's family's stuff, in boxes against the wall, until suddenly they can move around in the space and look around.  
  
"You ready?" Zayn asks him, turning to look into his eyes.  
  
"Yeah," Harry sniffs, looking back at him. "Let's go."  
  
Zayn drives them to June's, Harry's car stuffed to the brim with boxes and random items, to store it in the garage for safe keeping, for now, until they have a place they can put it, with reverence, when Harry can look at it and not want to get high or blame himself.  
  
Harry grabs for his hand, and Zayn holds on, and even though they both want to, after the last few weeks they've had, neither of them close their eyes.  
  
They keep them wide open.

  
  
***

  
Misery loves company, or so the saying goes.  
  
Miserable people always find other miserable people.  
  
The people with the fucked up lives, the ones who live in bottles, under tables, behind dumpsters in alleys downtown, they all gravitate towards one another because the nice people, the ones in houses and pushing strollers, the ones with dental plans and recipe books, they won't have them. At least, not in the long run.  
  
So the miserable ones, the truly miserable ones, the ones taking pills and flying, the ones dancing on poles and soaring, the ones gripping wallets and music boxes in their hands for dear life, they eventually fall into laps and hold tight, let boys with kind eyes stay there and run fingers up their backs. Because miserable people find each other. They latch like leeches, grip tight like they're holding handle bars, can't let go like they're about to fall off a cliff. But if they're lucky, if it's meant to be, if there's a sign, they open their eyes.  
  
These days, Zayn doesn't think it, not really, but he's happy.  
  
When he grabs Harry's hand and they move into a new apartment, one they share with Jamie, to keep them safe, to watch over them, like a family, like brothers, Zayn's happy. He smiles and he laughs, and whenever Jamie and Harry gang up on him for being too messy, he rolls his eyes, and he's happy.  
  
These days, Harry doesn't think it, not really, but he's happy, too.  
  
When he cries about his family, gets so low he can barely get out of bed because he still thinks, deep down, that he ruins people, when Zayn crawls into their bed and holds him, he's happy. He doesn't dance to feel strangers' hands anymore, he doesn't need a pill to forget his sorrow, and when Zayn sucks into his neck and bites at his hip bones before taking him in his mouth night after night, he's so happy.  
  
Jamie told Zayn something once, years ago, and when he brings it up months after their detox, months after they've lived together and spent night after night at June's having dinner, Zayn almost cries.  
  
"You know… I don't know if you remember, but we were fighting once, and I told you to be careful. I said whoever you eventually fall for, they'll be just as fucked up as you. And I shouldn't have said that, because that makes it seem like fucked up people will always be fucked up, will always hurt and be hurt and crash," Jamie says, as they sit together on the front steps that Thanksgiving.  
  
Jamie had just proposed to Cara in the living room, with the little girl June had been taking care of sitting on Harry's lap, tears in all their eyes as Cara said yes and jumped up and down.  
  
So Zayn wanted to take a minute, hold Jamie by the shoulder before dessert, and now he's not sure where Jamie's going with this.  
  
He nods for Jamie to continue, keeping the tears in.  
  
"But… you're here. And so is Harry. You both were miserable, I think, but you're proof that miserable people can get better, can find peace and happiness. I think you and Harry were supposed to come together for a reason. And I'm glad," he finishes, takes a drink from his beer.  
  
Zayn hugs him then, like the goddamn sap he's become, and he's happy.  
  
They all are.  
  
Because life is about appreciating moments and really living them. It's about seeing, smelling, tasting, hearing. Life isn't about silencing thoughts, it's about embracing them, even the hard ones. It's about appreciating the things you do have, the experiences you were lucky enough to get, loving the people who come into your life fiercely, even the people you're only lucky to have briefly.  
  
And either way, no matter what, it'll be okay. If you feel lost, you'll always be found, somehow.  
  
Zayn and Harry say it, whisper it, feel it, under their hands. They say it constantly, whenever they need to hear it, when they're intertwined or far apart, when they're aching or joyous, in despair or laughing for hours. They taste it on each others' lips, necks, stomachs, calves, every night, over and over, because some words need to be repeated to mean something. Some words start to sound less like words and more like a sound.  
  
So when they say it, it's like a music note, like a beat with a pulse.  
  
"I'm glad you found me."  
  
 

 

 

 

 


	7. Epilogue

 

  
 _"Hey babe, it's me. I can't talk long, I stepped outside for a minute. I just… I didn't get to see you this morning, and you haven't responded to my texts, so I wanted to tell you something. I just… I wanted to tell you that I know this week is hard, that I know it's a tough one because it's the anniversary again. But I want you to know I'm proud of you, for getting up and going to the restaurant this morning, for working, for interacting with the world and not staying in bed. I just… I think you might need to hear it. So listen to this on your break, or else I'll say this all again later tonight, and it won't be as nice or eloquent the second time around, so you better fucking listen to this. Okay, well. I gotta go back into the garage. Dax's friend says I need to help out with purchase orders later, which I know sounds lame, but I actually kind of like it. Okay. That's all. I love you. I love you so much and… OH, I'm going to do that thing you like later, the thing with the handcuffs and blindfold. You know the thing. Rest up, babe. And like I said, I'm proud of you and I love you. Okay. That's it. Bye."_

  
  
***

  
 _"J, June, my precious June. I desperately need your help and you're not answering. Cara said the flowers were supposed to be delivered directly to the church, but I can't find the vendor. Zayn's no help, and Jamie is freaking out as we speak. He's a mess and Zayn's not exactly calming him down. They're nervous about getting their suits_ _and shoes, so I have to go grab them and say I already have them in my car. It's like, are they animals? Have they never been to a wedding before? Call me back. I need you."_

  
  
***

  
 _"Zayn Malik, I'm going to kill you. You didn't even tell me about the new place, and I'm supposed to be your mother? If Jamie hadn't of called me earlier to tell me the exciting news, I'd still be in the dark! Where is Harry, why hasn't he called me, where are you? If you two could come up for air every once and awhile, that would sure be nice, I tell you… Call me back, love. I love you both. Congratulations on the house!"_

  
  
***

  
 _"June, I swear to fucking god, I'm going to throw this file out the window. You said there were three places to sign, like three different lines for my signature and I only see two. Zayn said he filled his out in no time at all, he said it was 'easy, J, just fill it in,' and I'm going crazy, because in what universe is ZAYN smarter than me? Why are you even adopting him, anyways? Just adopt me. I'm better. I'm smarter. Fuck, he heard me, he's walking over right now. If I get murdered, you know where to look for my body, and it's in Zayn's backyard under Harry's rose bush. Tell my wife that I love her. Fuck. Fuck! No, no, no, don't! June, he's killing me! June!"_

  
  
***

  
 _"Babe. It's me. You're working. I just got off the phone with Cara and she's not in labor yet, but I can feel it. I'm good with this kind of stuff. It's soon. You said to keep you in the loop, so this is the loop, and I'm keeping you in it. Jamie's nervous as hell, pre-becoming-a-daddy-nerves, I think. You should call him later and help him through it. You're the only one who can talk him down. OH, and one other thing… Nothing big… But… If you beat me home, if you get there before me, just don't like… don't freak out, okay? Just… let me explain it all to you. I talked to June, she told me how we can go about it, what paperwork to start, how we can help kids who need us, just like she did with you... I know you'll see the delivery boxes in the living room, and the new bunk bed and dresser in the spare bedroom, but don't freak out. I have a plan, Zayn! It's a great plan, I promise. Okay. I'll see you at home. Drive safe. I love you."_

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad you've stuck with me until the end. This was tough to write, probably just as tough to read, so thanks for trusting me to end it like this. I hope it's satisfying.
> 
> :)
> 
>  
> 
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